During August Doctor Deberle’s garden was like a well of foliage. The
railings were hidden both by the twining branches of the lilac and
laburnum trees and by the climbing plants, ivy, honeysuckle, and
clematis, which sprouted everywhere in luxuriance, and glided and
intermingled in inextricable confusion, drooping down in leafy
canopies, and running along the walls till they reached the elms at the
far end, where the verdure was so profuse that you might have thought a
tent were stretched between the trees, the elms serving as its giant
props. The garden was so small that the least shadow seemed to cover
it. At noon the sun threw a disc of yellow light on the centre,
illumining the lawn and its two flower-beds. Against the garden steps
was a huge rose-bush, laden with hundreds of large tea-roses. In the
evening when the heat subsided their perfume became more penetrating,
and the air under the elms grew heavy with their warm breath. Nothing
could exceed the charm of this hidden, balmy nook, into which no
neighborly inquisition could peep, and which brought one a dream of the
forest primeval, albeit barrel-organs were playing polkas in the Rue
Vineuse, near by.
“Why, madame, doesn’t mademoiselle go down to the garden?” Rosalie
daily asked. “I’m sure it would do her good to romp about under the
trees.”
One of the elms had invaded Rosalie’s kitchen with its branches. She
would pull some of the leaves off as she gazed with delight on the
clustering foliage, through which she could see nothing.
“She isn’t strong enough yet,” was Hélène’s reply. “The cold, shady
garden might be harmful to her.”
Rosalie was in no wise convinced. A happy thought with her was not
easily abandoned. Madame must surely be mistaken in imagining that it
would be cold or harmful. Perhaps madame’s objection sprang rather from
the fear that she would be in somebody’s way; but that was nonsense.
Mademoiselle would of a truth be in nobody’s way; not a living soul
made any appearance there. The doctor shunned the spot, and as for
madame, his wife, she would remain at the seaside till the middle of
September. This was so certain that the doorkeeper had asked Zephyrin
to give the garden a rake over, and Zephyrin and she herself had spent
two Sunday afternoons there already. Oh! it was lovely, lovelier than
one could imagine.
Hélène, however, still declined to act on the suggestion. Jeanne seemed
to have a great longing to enjoy a walk in the garden, which had been
the ceaseless topic of her discourse during her illness; but a vague
feeling of embarrassment made her eyes droop and closed her mouth on
the subject in her mother’s presence. At last when Sunday came round
again the maid hurried into the room exclaiming breathlessly:
“Oh! madame, there’s nobody there, I give you my word! Only myself and
Zephyrin, who is raking! Do let her come. You can’t imagine how fine it
is outside. Come for a little, only a little while, just to see!”
Her conviction was such that Hélène gave way. She cloaked Jeanne in a
shawl, and told Rosalie to take a heavy wrap with her. The child was in
an ecstasy, which spoke silently from the depths of her large sparkling
eyes; she even wished to descend the staircase without help in order
that her strength might be made plain. However, her mother’s arms were
stretched out behind her, ready to lend support. When they had reached
the foot of the stairs and entered the garden, they both gave vent to
an exclamation. So little did this umbrageous, thicket-girt spot
resemble the trim nook they had seen in the springtime that they failed
to recognize it.
“Ah! you wouldn’t believe me!” declared Rosalie, in triumphant tones.
The clumps of shrubbery had grown to great proportions, making the
paths much narrower, and, in walking, their skirts caught in some of
the interwoven branches. To the fancy it seemed some far-away recess in
a wood, arched over with foliage, from which fell a greeny light of
delightful charm and mystery. Hélène directed her steps towards the elm
beneath which she had sat in April.
“But I don’t wish her to stay here,” said she. “It is shady and
coldish.”
“Well, well, you will see in a minute,” answered the maid.
Three steps farther on they emerged from the seeming forest, and, in
the midst of the leafy profusion they found the sun’s golden rays
streaming on the lawn, warm and still as in a woodland clearing. As
they looked up they saw the branches standing out against the blue of
the sky with the delicacy of guipure. The tea-roses on the huge bush,
faint in the heat, dropped slumberously from their stems. The
flower-beds were full of red and white asters, looking with their
old-world air like blossoms woven in some ancient tapestry.
“Now you’ll see,” said Rosalie. “I’m going to put her all right
myself.”
She had folded and placed the wrap on the edge of a walk, where the
shadow came to an end. Here she made Jeanne sit down, covering her
shoulders with a shawl, and bidding her stretch out her little legs. In
this fashion the shade fell on the child’s head, while her feet lay in
the sunshine.
“Are you all right, my darling?” Hélène asked.
“Oh, yes,” was her answer. “I don’t feel cold a bit, you know. I almost
think I am sweltering before a big fire. Ah! how well one can breathe!
How pleasant it is!”
Thereupon Hélène, whose eyes had turned uneasily towards the closed
window-shutters of the house, expressed her intention of returning
upstairs for a little while, and loaded Rosalie with a variety of
injunctions. She would have to watch the sun; she was not to leave
Jeanne there for more than half an hour; and she must not lose sight of
her for a moment.
“Don’t be alarmed, mamma,” exclaimed the child, with a laugh. “There
are no carriages to pass along here.”
Left to amuse herself, she gathered a handful of gravel from the path
at her side, and took pleasure in letting it fall from her clasped
hands like a shower of rain. Zephyrin meantime was raking. On catching
sight of madame and her daughter he had slipped on his great-coat,
which he had previously hung from the branch of a tree; and in token of
respect had stood stock-still, with his rake idle in his hand.
Throughout Jeanne’s illness he had come every Sunday as usual; but so
great had been the caution with which he had slipped into the kitchen,
that Hélène would scarcely have dreamt of his presence had not Rosalie
on each occasion been deputed as his messenger to inquire about the
invalid’s progress, and convey his condolences. Yes, so ran her
comments, he was now laying claim to good manners; Paris was giving him
some polish! And at present here he was, leaning on his rake, and
mutely addressing Jeanne with a sympathetic nod. As soon as she saw
him, her face broke into smiles.
“I have been very ill,” she said.
“Yes, I know, mademoiselle,” he replied as he placed his hand on his
heart. And inspired with the wish to say something pretty or comical,
which might serve to enliven the meeting, he added: “You see, your
health has been taking a rest. Now it will indulge in a snore.”
Jeanne had again gathered up a handful of gravel, while he, perfectly
satisfied, and opening his mouth wide from ear to ear in a burst of
silent laughter, renewed his raking with all the strength of his arms.
As the rake travelled over the gravel a regular, strident sound arose.
When a few minutes had elapsed Rosalie, seeing her little charge
absorbed in her amusement, seemingly happy and at ease, drew gradually
farther away from her, as though lured by the grating of this rake.
Zephyrin was now working away in the full glare of the sun, on the
other side of the lawn.
“You are sweating like an ox,” she whispered to him. “Take off your
great-coat. Be quick; mademoiselle won’t be offended.”
He relieved himself of the garment, and once more suspended it from a
branch. His red trousers, supported by a belt round the waist, reached
almost to his chest, while his shirt of stout, unbleached linen, held
at the neck by a narrow horsehair band, was so stiff that it stuck out
and made him look even rounder than he was. He tucked up his sleeves
with a certain amount of affectation, as though to show Rosalie a
couple of flaming hearts, which, with the inscription “For Ever,” had
been tattooed on them at the barracks.
“Did you go to mass this morning?” asked Rosalie, who usually tackled
him with this question every Sunday.
“To mass! to mass!” he repeated, with a chuckle.
His red ears seemed to stand out from his head, shorn to the very skin,
and the whole of his diminutive barrel-like body expressed a spirit of
banter.
At last the confession came. “Of course I went to mass.”
“You are lying,” Rosalie burst out violently. “I know you are lying;
your nose is twitching. Oh, Zephyrin, you are going to the dogs—you
have left off going to church! Beware!”
His answer, lover-like, was an attempt to put his arm round her waist,
but to all appearance she was shocked, for she exclaimed:
“I’ll make you put on your coat again if you don’t behave yourself.
Aren’t you ashamed? Why, there’s mademoiselle looking at you!”
Thereupon Zephyrin turned to his raking once more. In truth, Jeanne had
raised her eyes towards them. Her amusement was palling on her
somewhat; the gravel thrown aside, she had been gathering leaves and
plucking grass; but a feeling of indolence crept over her, and now she
preferred to do nothing but gaze at the sunshine as it fell on her more
and more. A few moments previously only her legs, as far as the knees,
had been bathed in this warm cascade of sunshine, but now it reached
her waist, the heat increasing like an entrancing caress. What
particularly amused her were the round patches of light, of a beautiful
golden yellow, which danced over her shawl, for all the world like
living creatures. She tossed back her head to see if they were
perchance creeping towards her face, and meanwhile clasped her little
hands together in the glare of the sunshine. How thin and transparent
her hands seemed! The sun’s rays passed through them, but all the same
they appeared to her very pretty, pinky like shells, delicate and
attenuated like the tiny hands of an infant Christ. Then too the fresh
air, the gigantic trees around her, and the warmth, had lulled her
somewhat into a trance. Sleep, she imagined, had come upon her, and yet
she could still see and hear. It all seemed to her very nice and
pleasant.
“Mademoiselle, please draw back a bit,” said Rosalie, who had
approached her. “The sun’s heat is too warm for you.”
But with a wave of her hand Jeanne declined to stir. For the time her
attention was riveted on the maid and the little soldier. She pretended
to direct her glances towards the ground, with the intention of making
them believe that she did not see them; but in reality, despite her
apparent drowsiness, she kept watching them from beneath her long
eyelashes.
Rosalie stood near her for a minute or two longer, but was powerless
against the charms of the grating rake. Once more she slowly dragged
herself towards Zephyrin, as if in spite of her will. She resented the
change in manner which he was now displaying, and yet her heart was
bursting with mute admiration. The little soldier had used to good
purpose his long strolls with his comrades in the Jardin des Plantes
and round the Place du Chateau-d’Eau, where his barracks stood, and the
result was the acquisition of the swaying, expansive graces of the
Parisian fire-eater. He had learnt the flowery talk, gallant readiness,
and involved style of language so dear to the hearts of the ladies. At
times she was thrilled with intense pleasure as she listened to the
phrases which he repeated to her with a swagger of the shoulders,
phrases full of incomprehensible words that inflamed her cheeks with a
flush of pride. His uniform no longer sat awkwardly on him; he swung
his arms to and fro with a knowing air, and had an especially
noticeable style of wearing his shako on the back of his head, with the
result that his round face with its tip of a nose became extremely
prominent, while his headgear swayed gently with the rolling of his
body. Besides, he was growing quite free and easy, quaffed his dram,
and ogled the fair sex. With his sneering ways and affectation of
reticence, he now doubtless knew a great deal more than she did. Paris
was fast taking all the remaining rust off him; and Rosalie stood
before him, delighted yet angry, undecided whether to scratch his face
or let him give utterance to foolish prattle.
Zephyrin, meanwhile, raking away, had turned the corner of the path. He
was now hidden by a big spindle-tree, and was darting side-glances at
Rosalie, luring her on against her will with the strokes of his rake.
When she had got near him, he pinched her roughly.
“Don’t cry out; that’s only to show you how I love you!” he said in a
husky whisper. “And take that over and above.”
So saying he kissed her where he could, his lips lighting somewhere on
her ear. Then, as Rosalie gave him a fierce nip in reply, he retaliated
by another kiss, this time on her nose. Though she was well pleased,
her face turned fiery-red; she was furious that Jeanne’s presence
should prevent her from giving him a box on the ear.
“I have pricked my finger,” she declared to Jeanne as she returned to
her, by way of explaining the exclamation that escaped her lips.
However, betwixt the spare branches of the spindle-tree the child had
seen the incident. Amid the surrounding greenery the soldier’s red
trousers and greyish shirt were clearly discernible. She slowly raised
her eyes to Rosalie, and looked at her for a moment, while the maid
blushed the more. Then Jeanne’s gaze fell to the ground again, and she
gathered another handful of pebbles, but lacked the will or strength to
play with them, and remained in a dreamy state, with her hands resting
on the warm ground, amidst the vibrations of the sunrays. Within her a
wave of health was swelling and stifling her. The trees seemed to take
Titanic shape, and the air was redolent of the perfume of roses. In
wonder and delight, she dreamt of all sorts of vague things.
“What are you thinking of, mademoiselle?” asked Rosalie uneasily.
“I don’t know—of nothing,” was Jeanne’s reply. “Yes, I do know. You
see, I should like to live to be very old.”
However, she could not explain these words. It was an idea, she said,
that had come into her head. But in the evening, after dinner, as her
dreamy fit fell on her again, and her mother inquired the cause, she
suddenly put the question:
“Mamma, do cousins ever marry?”
“Yes, of course,” said Hélène. “Why do you ask me that?”
“Oh, nothing; only I wanted to know.”
Hélène had become accustomed to these extraordinary questions. The hour
spent in the garden had so beneficial an effect on the child that every
sunny day found her there. Hélène’s reluctance was gradually dispelled;
the house was still shut up. Henri never ventured to show himself, and
ere long she sat down on the edge of the rug beside Jeanne. However, on
the following Sunday morning she found the windows thrown open, and
felt troubled at heart.
“Oh! but of course the rooms must be aired,” exclaimed Rosalie, as an
inducement for them to go down. “I declare to you nobody’s there!”
That day the weather was still warmer. Through the leafy screen the
sun’s rays darted like golden arrows. Jeanne, who was growing strong,
strolled about for ten minutes, leaning on her mother’s arm. Then,
somewhat tired, she turned towards her rug, a corner of which she
assigned to Hélène. They smiled at one another, amused at thus finding
themselves side by side on the ground. Zephyrin had given up his
raking, and was helping Rosalie to gather some parsley, clumps of which
were growing along the end wall.
All at once there was an uproar in the house, and Hélène was thinking
of flight, when Madame Deberle made her appearance on the garden-steps.
She had just arrived, and was still in her travelling dress, speaking
very loudly, and seemingly very busy. But immediately she caught sight
of Madame Grandjean and her daughter, sitting on the ground in the
front of the lawn, she ran down, overwhelmed them with embraces, and
poured a deafening flood of words into their ears.
“What, is it you? How glad I am to see you! Kiss me, my little Jeanne!
Poor puss, you’ve been very ill, have you not? But you’re getting
better; the roses are coming back to your cheeks! And you, my dear, how
often I’ve thought of you! I wrote to you: did my letters reach you?
You must have spent a terrible time: but it’s all over now! Will you
let me kiss you?”
Hélène was now on her feet, and was forced to submit to a kiss on each
cheek and return them. This display of affection, however, chilled her
to the heart.
“You’ll excuse us for having invaded your garden,” she said.
“You’re joking,” retorted Juliette impetuously. “Are you not at home
here?”
But she ran off for a moment, hastened up the stairs, and called across
the open rooms: “Pierre, don’t forget anything; there are seventeen
packages!”
Then, at once coming back, she commenced chattering about her holiday
adventures. “Oh! such a splendid season! We went to Trouville, you
know. The beach was always thronged with people. It was quite a crush.
and people of the highest spheres, you know. I had visitors too. Papa
came for a fortnight with Pauline. All the same, I’m glad to get home
again. But I haven’t given you all my news. Oh! I’ll tell you later
on!”
She stooped down and kissed Jeanne again; then suddenly becoming
serious, she asked:
“Am I browned by the sun?”
“No; I don’t see any signs of it,” replied Hélène as she gazed at her.
Juliette’s eyes were clear and expressionless, her hands were plump,
her pretty face was full of amiability; age did not tell on her; the
sea air itself was powerless to affect her expression of serene
indifference. So far as appearances went, she might have just returned
from a shopping expedition in Paris. However, she was bubbling over
with affection, and the more loving her outbursts, the more weary,
constrained, and ill became Hélène. Jeanne meantime never stirred from
the rug, but merely raised her delicate, sickly face, while clasping
her hands with a chilly air in the sunshine.
“Wait, you haven’t seen Lucien yet,” exclaimed Juliette. “You must see
him; he has got so fat.”
When the lad was brought on the scene, after the dust of the journey
had been washed from his face by a servant girl, she pushed and turned
him about to exhibit him. Fat and chubby-cheeked, his skin tanned by
playing on the beach in the salt breeze, Lucien displayed exuberant
health, but he had a somewhat sulky look because he had just been
washed. He had not been properly dried, and one check was still wet and
fiery-red with the rubbing of the towel. When he caught sight of Jeanne
he stood stock-still with astonishment. She looked at him out of her
poor, sickly face, as colorless as linen against the background of her
streaming black hair, whose tresses fell in clusters to her shoulders.
Her beautiful, sad, dilated eyes seemed to fill up her whole
countenance; and, despite the excessive heat, she shivered somewhat,
and stretched out her hands as though chilled and seeking warmth from a
blazing fire.
“Well! aren’t you going to kiss her?” asked Juliette.
But Lucien looked rather afraid. At length he made up his mind, and
very cautiously protruded his lips so that he might not come too near
the invalid. This done, he started back expeditiously. Hélène’s eyes
were brimming over with tears. What health that child enjoyed! whereas
her Jeanne was breathless after a walk round the lawn! Some mothers
were very fortunate! Juliette all at once understood how cruel Lucien’s
conduct was, and she rated him soundly.
“Good gracious! what a fool you are! Is that the way to kiss young
ladies? You’ve no idea, my dear, what a nuisance he was at Trouville.”
She was getting somewhat mixed. But fortunately for her the doctor now
made his appearance, and she extricated herself from her difficulty by
exclaiming: “Oh, here’s Henri.”
He had not been expecting their return until the evening, but she had
travelled by an earlier train. She plunged into a discursive
explanation, without in the least making her reasons clear. The doctor
listened with a smiling face. “At all events, here you are,” he said.
“That’s all that’s necessary.”
A minute previously he had bowed to Hélène without speaking. His glance
for a moment fell on Jeanne, but feeling embarrassed he turned away his
head. Jeanne bore his look with a serious face, and unclasping her
hands instinctively grasped her mother’s gown and drew closer to her
side.
“Ah! the rascal,” said the doctor, as he raised Lucien and kissed him
on each cheek. “Why, he’s growing like magic.”
“Yes; and am I to be forgotten?” asked Juliette, as she held up her
head. Then, without putting Lucien down, holding him, indeed, on one
arm, the doctor leaned over to kiss his wife. Their three faces were
lit up with smiles.
Hélène grew pale, and declared she must now go up. Jeanne, however, was
unwilling; she wished to see what might happen, and her glances
lingered for a while on the Deberles and then travelled back to her
mother. When Juliette had bent her face upwards to receive her
husband’s kiss, a bright gleam had come into the child’s eyes.
“He’s too heavy,” resumed the doctor as he set Lucien down again.
“Well, was the season a good one? I saw Malignon yesterday, and he was
telling me about his stay there. So you let him leave before you, eh?”
“Oh! he’s quite a nuisance!” exclaimed Juliette, over whose face a
serious, embarrassed expression had now crept. “He tormented us to
death the whole time.”
“Your father was hoping for Pauline’s sake—He hasn’t declared his
intentions then?”
“What! Malignon!” said she, as though astonished and offended. And then
with a gesture of annoyance she added, “Oh! leave him alone; he’s
cracked! How happy I am to be home again!”
Without any apparent transition, she thereupon broke into an amazing
outburst of tenderness, characteristic of her bird-like nature. She
threw herself on her husband’s breast and raised her face towards him.
To all seeming they had forgotten that they were not alone.
Jeanne’s eyes, however, never quitted them. Her lips were livid and
trembled with anger; her face was that of a jealous and revengeful
woman. The pain she suffered was so great that she was forced to turn
away her head, and in doing so she caught sight of Rosalie and Zephyrin
at the bottom of the garden, still gathering parsley. Doubtless with
the intent of being in no one’s way, they had crept in among the
thickest of the bushes, where both were squatting on the ground.
Zephyrin, with a sly movement, had caught hold of one of Rosalie’s
feet, while she, without uttering a syllable, was heartily slapping
him. Between two branches Jeanne could see the little soldier’s face,
chubby and round as a moon and deeply flushed, while his mouth gaped
with an amorous grin. Meantime the sun’s rays were beating down
vertically, and the trees were peacefully sleeping, not a leaf stirring
among them all. From beneath the elms came the heavy odor of soil
untouched by the spade. And elsewhere floated the perfume of the last
tea-roses, which were casting their petals one by one on the garden
steps. Then Jeanne, with swelling heart, turned her gaze on her mother,
and seeing her motionless and dumb in presence of the Deberles, gave
her a look of intense anguish—a child’s look of infinite meaning, such
as you dare not question.
But Madame Deberle stepped closer to them, and said: “I hope we shall
see each other frequently now. As Jeanne is feeling better, she must
come down every afternoon.”
Hélène was already casting about for an excuse, pleading that she did
not wish to weary her too much. But Jeanne abruptly broke in: “No, no;
the sun does me a great deal of good. We will come down, madame. You
will keep my place for me, won’t you?”
And as the doctor still remained in the background, she smiled towards
him.
“Doctor, please tell mamma that the fresh air won’t do me any harm.”
He came forward, and this man, inured to human suffering, felt on his
cheeks a slight flush at being thus gently addressed by the child.
“Certainly not,” he exclaimed; “the fresh air will only bring you
nearer to good health.”
“So you see, mother darling, we must come down,” said Jeanne, with a
look of ineffable tenderness, whilst a sob died away in her throat.
But Pierre had reappeared on the steps and announced the safe arrival
of madame’s seventeen packages. Then, followed by her husband and
Lucien, Juliette retired, declaring that she was frightfully dirty, and
intended to take a bath. When they were alone, Hélène knelt down on the
rug, as though about to tie the shawl round Jeanne’s neck, and
whispered in the child’s ear:
“You’re not angry any longer with the doctor, then?”
With a prolonged shake of the head the child replied “No, mamma.”
There was a silence. Hélène’s hands were seized with an awkward
trembling, and she was seemingly unable to tie the shawl. Then Jeanne
murmured: “But why does he love other people so? I won’t have him love
them like that.”
And as she spoke, her black eyes became harsh and gloomy, while her
little hands fondled her mother’s shoulders. Hélène would have replied,
but the words springing to her lips frightened her. The sun was now
low, and mother and daughter took their departure. Zephyrin meanwhile
had reappeared to view, with a bunch of parsley in his hand, the stalks
of which he continued pulling off while darting murderous glances at
Rosalie. The maid followed at some distance, inspired with distrust now
that there was no one present. Just as she stooped to roll up the rug
he tried to pinch her, but she retaliated with a blow from her fist
which made his back re-echo like an empty cask. Still it seemed to
delight him, and he was yet laughing silently when he re-entered the
kitchen busily arranging his parsley.
Thenceforth Jeanne was stubbornly bent on going down to the garden as
soon as ever she heard Madame Deberle’s voice there. All Rosalie’s
tittle-tattle regarding the next-door house she drank in greedily, ever
restless and inquisitive concerning its inmates and their doings; and
she would even slip out of the bedroom to keep watch from the kitchen
window. In the garden, ensconced in a small arm-chair which was brought
for her use from the drawing-room by Juliette’s direction, her eyes
never quitted the family. Lucien she now treated with great reserve,
annoyed it seemed by his questions and antics, especially when the
doctor was present. On those occasions she would stretch herself out as
if wearied, gazing before her with her eyes wide open. For Hélène the
afternoons were pregnant with anguish. She always returned, however,
returned in spite of the feeling of revolt which wrung her whole being.
Every day when, on his arrival home, Henri printed a kiss on Juliette’s
hair, her heart leaped in its agony. And at those moments, if to hide
the agitation of her face she pretended to busy herself with Jeanne,
she would notice that the child was even paler than herself, with her
black eyes glaring and her chin twitching with repressed fury. Jeanne
shared in her suffering. When the mother turned away her head,
heartbroken, the child became so sad and so exhausted that she had to
be carried upstairs and put to bed. She could no longer see the doctor
approach his wife without changing countenance; she would tremble, and
turn on him a glance full of all the jealous fire of a deserted
mistress.
“I cough in the morning,” she said to him one day. “You must come and
see for yourself.”
Rainy weather ensued, and Jeanne became quite anxious that the doctor
should commence his visits once more. Yet her health had much improved.
To humor her, Hélène had been constrained to accept two or three
invitations to dine with the Deberles.
At last the child’s heart, so long torn by hidden sorrow, seemingly
regained quietude with the complete re-establishment of her health. She
would again ask Hélène the old question—“Are you happy, mother
darling?”
“Yes, very happy, my pet,” was the reply.
And this made her radiant. She must be pardoned her bad temper in the
past, she said. She referred to it as a fit which no effort of her own
will could prevent, the result of a headache that came on her suddenly.
Something would spring up within her—she wholly failed to understand
what it was. She was tempest-tossed by a multitude of vague
imaginings—nightmares that she could not even have recalled to memory.
However, it was past now; she was well again, and those worries would
nevermore return.