Next day Hélène thought it right and proper to pay a visit of thanks to
Doctor Deberle. The abrupt fashion in which she had compelled him to
follow her, and the remembrance of the whole night which he had spent
with Jeanne, made her uneasy, for she realized that he had done more
than is usually compassed within a doctor’s visit. Still, for two days
she hesitated to make her call, feeling a strange repugnance towards
such a step. For this she could give herself no reasons. It was the
doctor himself who inspired her with this hesitancy; one morning she
met him, and shrunk from his notice as though she were a child. At this
excess of timidity she was much annoyed. Her quiet, upright nature
protested against the uneasiness which was taking possession of her.
She decided, therefore, to go and thank the doctor that very day.
Jeanne’s attack had taken place during the small hours of Wednesday
morning; it was now Saturday, and the child was quite well again.
Doctor Bodin, whose fears concerning her had prompted him to make an
early call, spoke of Doctor Deberle with the respect that an old doctor
with a meagre income pays to another in the same district, who is
young, rich, and already possessed of a reputation. He did not forget
to add, however, with an artful smile, that the fortune had been
bequeathed by the elder Deberle, a man whom all Passy held in
veneration. The son had only been put to the trouble of inheriting
fifteen hundred thousand francs, together with a splendid practice. “He
is, though, a very smart fellow,” Doctor Bodin hastened to add, “and I
shall be honored by having a consultation with him about the precious
health of my little friend Jeanne!”
About three o’clock Hélène made her way downstairs with her daughter,
and had to take but a few steps along the Rue Vineuse before ringing at
the next-door house. Both mother and daughter still wore deep mourning.
A servant, in dress-coat and white tie, opened the door. Hélène easily
recognized the large entrance-hall, with its Oriental hangings; on each
side of it, however, there were now flower-stands, brilliant with a
profusion of blossoms. The servant having admitted them to a small
drawing-room, the hangings and furniture of which were of a mignonette
hue, stood awaiting their pleasure, and Hélène gave her name—Madame
Grandjean.
Thereupon the footman pushed open the door of a drawing-room, furnished
in yellow and black, of dazzling effect, and, moving aside, announced:
“Madame Grandjean!”
Hélène, standing on the threshold, started back. She had just noticed
at the other end of the room a young woman seated near the fireplace on
a narrow couch which was completely covered by her ample skirts. Facing
her sat an elderly person, who had retained her bonnet and shawl, and
was evidently paying a visit.
“I beg pardon,” exclaimed Hélène. “I wished to see Doctor Deberle.”
She had made the child enter the room before her, and now took her by
the hand again. She was both astonished and embarrassed in meeting this
young lady. Why had she not asked for the doctor? She well knew he was
married.
Madame Deberle was just finishing some story, in a quick and rather
shrill voice.
“Oh! it’s marvellous, marvellous! She dies with wonderful realism. She
clutches at her bosom like this, throws back her head, and her face
turns green. I declare you ought to see her, Mademoiselle Aurelie!”
Then, rising up, she sailed towards the doorway, rustling her skirts
terribly.
“Be so kind as to walk in, madame,” she said with charming
graciousness. “My husband is not at home, but I shall be delighted to
receive you, I assure you. This must be the pretty little girl who was
so ill a few nights ago. Sit down for a moment, I beg of you.”
Hélène was forced to accept the invitation, while Jeanne timidly
perched herself on the edge of another chair. Madame Deberle again sank
down on her little sofa, exclaiming with a pretty laugh,
“Yes, this is my day. I receive every Saturday, you see, and Pierre
then announces all comers. A week or two ago he ushered in a colonel
suffering from the gout.”
“How silly you are, my dear Juliette!” expostulated Mademoiselle
Aurelie, the elderly lady, an old friend in straitened circumstances,
who had seen her come into the world.
There was a short silence, and Hélène gazed round at the luxury of the
apartment, with its curtains and chairs in black and gold, glittering
like constellations. Flowers decorated mantel-shelf, piano, and tables
alike, and the clear light streamed through the windows from the
garden, in which could be seen the leafless trees and bare soil. The
room had almost a hot-house temperature; in the fireplace one large log
was glowing with intense heat. After another glance Hélène recognized
that the gaudy colors had a happy effect. Madame Deberle’s hair was
inky-black, and her skin of a milky whiteness. She was short, plump,
slow in her movements, and withal graceful. Amidst all the golden
decorations, her white face assumed a vermeil tint under her heavy,
sombre tresses. Hélène really admired her.
“Convulsions are so terrible,” broke in Madame Deberle. “My Lucien had
them when a mere baby. How uneasy you must have been, madame! However,
the dear little thing appears to be quite well now.”
As she drawled out these words she kept her eyes on Hélène, whose
superb beauty amazed and delighted her. Never had she seen a woman with
so queenly an air in the black garments which draped the widow’s
commanding figure. Her admiration found vent in an involuntary smile,
while she exchanged glances with Mademoiselle Aurelie. Their admiration
was so ingenuously and charmingly expressed, that a faint smile also
rippled over Hélène’s face.
Then Madame Deberle stretched herself on the sofa. “You were not at the
first night at the Vaudeville yesterday, madame?” she asked, as she
played with the fan that hung from her waist.
“I never go to the theatre,” was Hélène’s reply.
“Oh! little Noëmi was simply marvellous! Her death scene is so
realistic! She clutches her bosom like this, throws back her head, and
her face turns green. Oh! the effect is prodigious.”
Thereupon she entered into a minute criticism of the actress’s playing,
which she upheld against the world; and then she passed to the other
topics of the day—a fine art exhibition, at which she had seen some
most remarkable paintings; a stupid novel about which too much fuss was
being made; a society intrigue which she spoke of to Mademoiselle
Aurelie in veiled language. And so she went on from one subject to
another, without wearying, her tongue ever ready, as though this social
atmosphere were peculiarly her own. Hélène, a stranger to such society,
was content to listen, merely interjecting a remark or brief reply
every now and then.
At last the door was again thrown open and the footman announced:
“Madame de Chermette! Madame Tissot!”
Two ladies entered, magnificently dressed. Madame Deberle rose eagerly
to meet them, and the train of her black silk gown, heavily decked with
trimmings, trailed so far behind her that she had to kick it out of her
way whenever she happened to turn round. A confused babel of greetings
in shrill voices arose.
“Oh! how kind of you! I declare I never see you!”
“You know we come about that lottery.”
“Yes: I know, I know.”
“Oh! we cannot sit down. We have to call at twenty houses yet.”
“Come now, you are not going to run away at once!”
And then the visitors finished by sitting down on the edge of a couch;
the chatter beginning again, shriller than ever.
“Well! what do you think of yesterday at the Vaudeville?”
“Oh! it was splendid!”
“You know she unfastens her dress and lets down her hair. All the
effect springs from that.”
“People say that she swallows something to make her green.”
“No, no, every action is premeditated; but she had to invent and study
them all, in the first place.”
“It’s wonderful.”
The two ladies rose and made their exit, and the room regained its
tranquil peacefulness. From some hyacinths on the mantel-shelf was
wafted an all-pervading perfume. For a time one could hear the noisy
twittering of some sparrows quarrelling on the lawn. Before resuming
her seat, Madame Deberle proceeded to draw down the embroidered tulle
blind of a window facing her, and then returned to her sofa in the
mellowed, golden light of the room.
“I beg pardon,” she now said. “We have had quite an invasion.”
Then, in an affectionate way, she entered into conversation with
Hélène. She seemed to know some details of her history, doubtless from
the gossip of her servants. With a boldness that was yet full of tact,
and appeared instinct with much friendliness, she spoke to Hélène of
her husband, and of his sad death at the Hotel du Var, in the Rue de
Richelieu.
“And you had just arrived, hadn’t you? You had never been in Paris
before. It must be awful to be plunged into mourning, in a strange
room, the day after a long journey, and when one doesn’t know a single
place to go to.”
Hélène assented with a slow nod. Yes, she had spent some very bitter
hours. The disease which carried off her husband had abruptly declared
itself on the day after their arrival, just as they were going out
together. She knew none of the streets, and was wholly unaware what
district she was in. For eight days she had remained at the bedside of
the dying man, hearing the rumble of Paris beneath her window, feeling
she was alone, deserted, lost, as though plunged in the depths of an
abyss. When she stepped out on the pavement for the first time, she was
a widow. The mere recalling of that bare room, with its rows of
medicine bottles, and with the travelling trunks standing about
unpacked, still made her shudder.
“Was your husband, as I’ve been told, nearly twice your age?” asked
Madame Deberle with an appearance of profound interest, while
Mademoiselle Aurelie cocked her ears so as not to lose a syllable of
the conversation.
“Oh, no!” replied Hélène. “He was scarcely six years older.”
Then she ventured to enter into the story of her marriage, telling in a
few brief sentences how her husband had fallen deeply in love with her
while she was living with her father, Monsieur Mouret, a hatter in the
Rue des Petites-Maries, at Marseilles; how the Grandjean family, who
were rich sugar-refiners, were bitterly opposed to the match, on
account of her poverty. She spoke, too, of the ill-omened and secret
wedding after the usual legal formalities, and of their hand-to-mouth
existence, till the day an uncle on dying left them some ten thousand
francs a year. It was then that Grandjean, within whom an intense
hatred of Marseilles was growing, had decided on coming to Paris, to
live there for good.
“And how old were you when you were married?” was Madame Deberle’s next
question.
“Seventeen.”
“You must have been very beautiful.”
The conversation suddenly ceased, for Hélène had not seemed to hear the
remark.
“Madame Manguelin!” announced the footman.
A young, retiring woman, evidently ill at ease, was ushered in. Madame
Deberle scarcely rose. It was one of her dependents, who had called to
thank her for some service performed. The visitor only remained for a
few minutes, and left the room with a courtesy.
Madame Deberle then resumed the conversation, and spoke of Abbé Jouve,
with whom both were acquainted. The Abbé was a meek officiating priest
at Notre-Dame-de-Grace, the parish church of Passy; however, his
charity was such that he was more beloved and more respectfully
hearkened to than any other priest in the district.
“Oh, he has such pious eloquence!” exclaimed Madame Deberle, with a
sanctimonious look.
“He has been very kind to us,” said Hélène. “My husband had formerly
known him at Marseilles. The moment he heard of my misfortune he took
charge of everything. To him we owe our settling in Passy.”
“He has a brother, hasn’t he?” questioned Juliette.
“Yes, a step-brother, for his mother married again. Monsieur Rambaud
was also acquainted with my husband. He has started a large business in
the Rue de Rambuteau, where he sells oils and other Southern produce. I
believe he makes a large amount of money by it.” And she added, with a
laugh: “The Abbé and his brother make up my court.”
Jeanne, sitting on the edge of her chair, and wearied to death, now
cast an impatient look at her mother. Her long, delicate, lamb-like
face wore a pained expression, as if she disliked all this
conversation; and she appeared at times to sniff the heavy, oppressive
odors floating in the room, while casting suspicious side-glances at
the furniture, as though her own exquisite sensibility warned her of
some undefined dangers. Finally, however, she turned a look of
tyrannical worship on her mother.
Madame Deberle noticed the child’s uneasiness.
“Here’s a little girl,” she said, “who feels tired at being serious,
like a grown-up person. There are some picture-books on the table,
dear; they will amuse you.”
Jeanne took up an album, but her eyes strayed from it to glance
imploringly at her mother. Hélène, charmed by her hostess’s excessive
kindness, did not move; there was nothing of the fidget in her, and she
would of her own accord remain seated for hours. However, as the
servant announced three ladies in succession—Madame Berthier, Madame de
Guiraud, and Madame Levasseur—she thought she ought to rise.
“Oh! pray stop,” exclaimed Madame Deberle; “I must show you my son.”
The semi-circle round the fireplace was increasing in size. The ladies
were all gossiping at the same time. One of them declared that she was
completely broken down, as for five days she had not gone to bed till
four o’clock in the morning. Another indulged in a diatribe against wet
nurses; she could no longer find one who was honest. Next the
conversation fell on dressmakers. Madame Deberle affirmed no woman
tailor could fit you properly; a man was requisite. Two of the ladies,
however, were mumbling something under their breath, and, a silence
intervening, two or three words became audible. Every one then broke
into a laugh, while languidly waving their fans.
“Monsieur Malignon!” announced the servant.
A tall young man, dressed in good style, was ushered in. Some
exclamations greeted him. Madame Deberle, not taking the trouble to
rise, stretched out her hand and inquired: “Well! what of yesterday at
the Vaudeville?”
“Vile!” was his reply.
“What! vile! She’s marvellous when she clutches her bosom and throws
back her head—”
“Stop! stop! The whole thing is loathsome in its realism.”
And then quite a dispute commenced. It was easy to talk of realism, but
the young man would have no realism at all.
“I would not have it in anything, you hear!” said he, raising his
voice. “No, not in anything! it degrades art.”
People would soon be seeing some fine things on the stage, indeed! Why
didn’t Noëmi follow out her actions to their logical conclusion? And he
illustrated his remark with a gesture which quite scandalized the
ladies. Oh, how horrible! However, when Madame Deberle had declared
that the actress produced a great effect, and Madame Levasseur had
related how a lady had fainted in the balcony, everybody agreed that
the affair was a great success; and with this the discussion stopped
short.
The young man sat in an arm-chair, with his legs stretched out among
the ladies’ flowing skirts. He seemed to be quite at home in the
doctor’s house. He had mechanically plucked a flower from a vase, and
was tearing it to pieces with his teeth. Madame Deberle interrupted
him:
“Have you read that novel which—”
He did not allow her to finish, but replied, with a superior air, that
he only read two novels in the year.
As for the exhibition of paintings at the Art Club, it was not worth
troubling about; and then, every topic being exhausted, he rose and
leaned over Juliette’s little sofa, conversing with her in a low voice,
while the other ladies continued chatting together in an animated
manner.
At length: “Dear me! he’s gone,” exclaimed Madame Berthier turning
round. “I met him only an hour ago in Madame Robinot’s drawing-room.”
“Yes, and he is now going to visit Madame Lecomte,” said Madame
Deberle. “He goes about more than any other man in Paris.” She turned
to Hélène, who had been following the scene, and added: “A very
distinguished young fellow he is, and we like him very much. He has
some interest in a stockbroking business; he’s very rich besides, and
well posted in everything.”
The other ladies, however, were now going off.
“Good-bye, dear madame. I rely upon you for Wednesday.”
“Yes, to be sure; Wednesday.”
“Oh, by the way, will you be at that evening party? One doesn’t know
whom one may meet. If you go, I’ll go.”
“Ah, well! I’ll go, I promise you. Give my best regards to Monsieur de
Guiraud.”
When Madame Deberle returned she found Hélène standing in the middle of
the drawing-room. Jeanne had drawn close to her mother, whose hands she
firmly grasped; and thus clinging to her caressingly and almost
convulsively, she was drawing her little by little towards the doorway.
“Ah, I was forgetting!” exclaimed the lady of the house; and ringing
the bell for the servant, she said to him: “Pierre, tell Miss Smithson
to bring Lucien here.”
During the short interval of waiting that ensued the door was again
opened, but this time in a familiar fashion and without any formal
announcement. A good-looking girl of some sixteen years of age entered
in company with an old man, short of stature but with a rubicund,
chubby face.
“Good-day, sister,” was the girl’s greeting, as she kissed Madame
Deberle.
“Good-day, Pauline! good-day, father!” replied the doctor’s wife.
Mademoiselle Aurelie, who had not stirred from her seat beside the
fire, rose to exchange greetings with Monsieur Letellier. He owned an
extensive silk warehouse on the Boulevard des Capucines. Since his
wife’s death he had been taking his younger daughter about everywhere,
in search of a rich husband for her.
“Were you at the Vaudeville last night?” asked Pauline.
“Oh, it was simply marvellous!” repeated Juliette in parrot-fashion,
as, standing before a mirror, she rearranged a rebellious curl.
“It is annoying to be so young; one can’t go to anything!” said
Pauline, pouting like a spoiled child. “I went with papa to the
theatre-door at midnight, to find out how the piece had taken.”
“Yes, and we tumbled upon Malignon,” said the father.
“He was extremely pleased with it.”
“Really!” exclaimed Juliette. “He was here a minute ago, and declared
it vile. One never knows how to take him.”
“Have you had many visitors to-day?” asked Pauline, rushing off to
another subject.
“Oh, several ladies; quite a crowd! The room was never once empty. I’m
dead-beat—”
Here she abruptly broke off, remembering she had a formal introduction
to make
“My father, my sister—Madame Grandjean.”
The conversation was turning on children and the ailments which give
mothers so much worry when Miss Smithson, an English governess,
appeared with a little boy clinging to her hand. Madame Deberle scolded
her in English for having kept them waiting.
“Ah! here’s my little Lucien!” exclaimed Pauline as she dropped on her
knees before the child, with a great rustling of skirts.
“Now, now, leave him alone!” said Juliette. “Come here, Lucien; come
and say good-day to this little lady.”
The boy came forward very sheepishly. He was no more than seven years
old, fat and dumpy, and dressed as coquettishly as a doll. As he saw
that they were all looking at him with smiles, he stopped short, and
surveyed Jeanne, his blue eyes wide open with astonishment.
“Go on!” urged his mother.
He turned his eyes questioningly on her and advanced a step, evincing
all the sullenness peculiar to lads of his age, his head lowered, his
thick lips pouting, and his eyebrows bent into a growing frown. Jeanne
must have frightened him with the serious look she wore standing there
in her black dress. She had not ceased holding her mother’s hand, and
was nervously pressing her fingers on the bare part of the arm between
the sleeve and glove. With head lowered she awaited Lucien’s approach
uneasily, like a young and timid savage, ready to fly from his caress.
But a gentle push from her mother prompted her to step forward.
“Little lady, you will have to kiss him first,” Madame Deberle said
laughingly. “Ladies always have to begin with him. Oh! the little
stupid.”
“Kiss him, Jeanne,” urged Hélène.
The child looked up at her mother; and then, as if conquered by the
bashful looks of the little noodle, seized with sudden pity as she
gazed on his good-natured face, so dreadfully confused—she smiled
divinely. A sudden wave of hidden tenderness rose within her and
brightened her features, and she whispered: “Willingly, mamma!”
Then, taking Lucien under the armpits, almost lifting him from the
ground, she gave him a hearty kiss on each cheek. He had no further
hesitation in embracing her.
“Bravo! capital!” exclaimed the onlookers.
With a bow Hélène turned to leave, accompanied to the door by Madame
Deberle.
“I beg you, madame,” said she, “to present my heartiest thanks to the
doctor. He relieved me of such dreadful anxiety the other night.”
“Is Henri not at home?” broke in Monsieur Letellier.
“No, he will be away some time yet,” was Juliette’s reply. “But you’re
not going away; you’ll dine with us,” she continued, addressing
Mademoiselle Aurelie, who had risen as if to leave with Madame
Grandjean.
The old maid with each Saturday expected a similar invitation, then
decided to relieve herself of shawl and bonnet. The heat in the
drawing-room was intense, and Monsieur Letellier hastened to open a
window, at which he remained standing, struck by the sight of a lilac
bush which was already budding. Pauline, meantime, had begun playfully
running after Lucien behind the chairs and couches, left in confusion
by the visitors.
On the threshold Madame Deberle held out her hand to Hélène with a
frank and friendly movement.
“You will allow me,” said she. “My husband spoke to me about you, and I
felt drawn to you. Your bereavement, your lonely life—in short, I am
very glad to have seen you, and you must not be long in coming back.”
“I give you my promise, and I am obliged to you,” said Hélène, moved by
these tokens of affection from a woman whom she had imagined rather
flighty. They clasped hands, and each looked into the other’s face with
a happy smile. Juliette’s avowal of her sudden friendship was given
with a caressing air. “You are too lovely not to be loved!” she said.
Hélène broke into a merry laugh, for her beauty never engaged her
thoughts, and she called Jeanne, whose eyes were busy watching the
pranks of Lucien and Pauline. But Madame Deberle detained the girl for
a moment longer.
“You are good friends henceforth,” she said; “you must just say _au
revoir_.”
Thereupon the two children blew one another a kiss with their
finger-tips.