Paris, with all its lamps and shop-windows, dazzled Nancy. It was before
the days in which ruins were visible from that brilliant Rue de Rivoli,
through which they drove to their hotel. She thought it was an
illumination as she saw the sweeping circles of light in the Place de la
Concorde, and the long line of lamps under the archways, and could not
be persuaded that this was how the brightest of cities adorned herself
every night. And when she opened her eyes next morning to the brilliancy
of the winter sunshine, and saw the brightness and gaiety of everything
around, Nancy was fairly transported out of herself. She had never even
been in a great hotel before, for Arthur had taken her to London
lodgings he had been in the habit of using, in Jermyn Street, which were
not dazzling. But here everything was lovely, Nancy thought. They had a
little _appartement_ in one of the great hotels over-looking the garden
of the Tuileries, with a little balcony; and from the white carpet with
its bouquet, and the sparkling wood-fire which was so bright and clean,
and supplemented the sunshine so delightfully, to the mirrors and
gilding, and white panels of the walls, everything she looked upon
filled Nancy with a bewildering delicious sense of having arrived at the
summit of fineness and splendour, and being a lady indeed, a princess
almost, enshrined in a bower of bliss. Nothing she had ever seen in all
her limited experience was half so splendid; and the noiseless waiters
who ran up and down with every luxury that Arthur could think of, and
the dainty food, and the perpetual service bewildered her unaccustomed
brain. This then was how great people lived! with carpets like velvet,
sofas covered with satin, a host of eager servants to find out what they
wanted, and bring them everything that could be thought of; mirrors to
reflect them on every side (Nancy had never been so sure about the _sit_
of her dress, or knew so well what her figure was like before--and it
was a very pretty figure). No wonder they were happy! When they had
breakfasted, a pretty Victoria, with a fur rug to cover their knees,
came to the door, and in this they drove all about, taking what Arthur
called a general view of Paris, its pretty streets, its river and quays,
its boulevards, the Champs Elysées, brilliant in the sunshine, with the
great arch at the end. When Arthur stopped to let her see Notre Dame,
Nancy was respectful but failed a little in interest. It chilled her to
go into a church in the middle of a week day so soon after she was
married. Church was for Sundays, she felt, not a place to go into in the
midst of laughing and talk. She felt it like a _memento mori_, a sudden
chill upon her exhilaration, and supposed that Arthur took her there
with the intention of making her remember her duty and her “latter end,”
which was a suggestion she did not like.
“Now you shall see something quite different in the ecclesiastical way,”
he said, stopping at another church before they went back to their
hotel; for he felt that somehow, though he did not quite know how, Notre
Dame had not been successful with Nancy. But she altogether refused to
go into the Madeleine.
“I don’t know why you are so anxious that I should see the churches,”
she said, pouting. “I never knew you were so religious.” Arthur made
haste to disavow the imputation, as may be supposed, which all the same
he did not like her to make. He was not “so religious,” but he did not
like to hear women speak of the matter so--it was “bad taste.”
“It is because the building is supposed to be fine,” he said, standing
at the door of the little carriage to hand her out; but Nancy declined
firmly. If she could not think of her duty without being taken into a
lot of churches to be reminded of religion and of dying, and all that
sort of thing, she did not feel at all disposed to be instructed so--and
they came in from their drive a little silent, and not so delighted with
each other, and with everything about them as they had been when they
went out, though Arthur, for his part, had not the slightest idea why.
Luncheon, however, obliterated all recollection of the churches, and
made her again feel that everything was delightful in her present lot.
Not that Nancy was _gourmande_, or given to dwell upon what she ate. One
of those horrible luxuries, known in England as a Bath bun, would have
contented her, so far as eatables went, quite as well as the daintiest
little _fricandeau_. It was the accessories of the meal which told upon
her, the obsequious attendants, the perpetual service, the silver
dishes, the beautiful fruit on the table, and the sparkling wine, which
she had heard the name of all her life, as the crown of luxury, but had
never tasted it even in its cheapest form. They must be spending heaps
of money, Nancy felt, to live like this. But she was not bold enough to
interfere just then, and there was an unexpressed and subtle flattery in
Arthur’s care to treat her as, she thought, only princesses, who were
not brides, would be treated. As a bride, Nancy knew she had a
prescriptive right to everything that was fine. Even in her own
knowledge, sacrifices were made to secure everything that was better
than usual, for the brief but exquisite moment in which a girl held this
official position. A bride had a right to a drive in a cab if she
wished it--to a glass of wine if she liked it--to cakes and dainties,
and a great deal of coaxing and admiration. And to wear her best dress
when she went out, even though it should be on a week-day. Arthur gave
to his bride a glorified version of all these delights, except the last,
the pretty Victoria instead of a Hansom, and this expedition to France
and other unknown regions, instead of the day at the Crystal Palace,
which Mr. Raisins would most likely suggest to Sarah Jane; though it was
strange that he should object to her “silk,” the only thing of which she
had been perfectly sure that it was right. It was in this point of view
that she liked the dainty luncheon; and when they went out again
arm-in-arm in the afternoon for a walk, the shops on the Boulevards
threw her into an ecstasy. Arthur was complaisance itself to all her
wishes here. He was willing to stand at the windows and look in as long
as she pleased, and he took her here and there to glove-shops and
milliners, and bought her a hundred pretty trifles. In every shop they
entered, both men and women were so eager to know what pleased _Madame_,
so anxious to prove triumphantly that this thing and the other was
becoming to Madame, so openly admiring, so caressingly urgent, that
Nancy’s head was turned. It seemed impossible not to believe in the
sudden enthusiasm she called forth. Could it be only the ribbons, or
collars, or gloves they bought that stimulated these delightful people
into such warm and apparent admiration. No! Nancy could not entertain
such an unworthy thought. It was their kindness, she said to herself,
and something still more agreeable whispered in her heart that it was
her own attractions that made these people so kind. Had they not a real
pleasure in seeing a young bride like herself, so fair, so happy, making
everything look well that was put upon her? Nancy did not flatter
herself in this open way, but she had a pleased and delightful
conviction that this was the feeling in their minds. She believed in
their sincerity, and that she had made a real impression upon them. Was
not this how all the _nice_ people in books, small and great, showed
their appreciation of the lovely young heroine? Nancy had not as yet any
experience of the great--and indeed it was an effort on her part to keep
up in her mind a certainty that she herself was in a superior position
to the masters and mistresses, the “young ladies” and “young gentlemen”
in these very fine shops; a little while ago she would have looked up to
_them_; now this consciousness made her head turn round, and gave the
most curious piquancy to their admiration and enthusiasm for Madame.
“How funny it is,” she said, as they came out into the crowded
Boulevard, where the lamps were beginning to be lit, “to be called
Madamm!”
Arthur looked a little strange at this pronunciation; but he did not
venture to criticise. It was necessary to go very quietly with this
touchy young woman. He told her some pretty things that Monsieur in the
shop had said to him while his wife had been fitting on her wares upon
Nancy.
“If you make as much sensation at the theatre,” he said, “what shall I
do? I am nobody now. I am Madame’s attendant, her obsequious husband.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Nancy, radiant. “What funny people the
French are! Are they always paying compliments?”
“To people who have any right to them, yes; to pretty people, and those
who pay well, and those who will be likely to believe them.”
“Arthur, how unkind of you! I don’t believe that people are so
barefaced, saying things they do not mean. One must have a very bad
opinion of other people if one thinks that.”
But for her own part, Nancy was not tempted to think so. She conceived a
very high opinion of the French nation. If she could have got Arthur out
of the way, she thought she would have liked to try a little
conversation on her own account, for it would be delightful to be able
to chatter as Arthur did, and talk to anyone; but in his presence she
did not like to venture. Once more they went back to their hotel in the
most delightful state of content with each other and all the world. They
were to dine early, and then go to the “Français” to see the _Bourgeois
Gentilhomme_. Arthur had told her the story of the play, and how she
would be sure to like it, and that there was not a better French actor
living, and not such a good English one; all which had impressed Nancy.
And she was to be allowed to wear her pink dress, with a pretty wrap
which he had bought, an Algerian mantle, softly white, with threads of
gold, and a flower in her hair. Nancy’s heart beat with the thought of
all this gaiety and grandeur. He had bought her also a pretty fan; and
they were to have a box, which was a thing which conveyed very
magnificent ideas to her mind. To sit there throned like a young
princess, and allow herself to be admired while the best of actors did
his best to amuse her, in the midst of that which imagination had always
painted to her as, after a ball, the most seductive of pleasures, a
gaily lighted and brilliant theatre, what could be more delightful? And
at first Nancy was quite as happy as she expected to be. When she looked
out from the corner of the box with its silken curtains upon the bright,
many-coloured crowd, it seemed to her as if she could understand a
little how the Queen must feel when she came forward to thank her loyal
subjects for their kind reception of her. Half of the people seemed to
be looking up admiringly, wonderingly. She had never felt so truly
great before. How well she remembered, in the days of her humility, when
the highest she could hope for was the upper boxes, watching beautiful
ladies come into their box, and giving a careless, splendid look over
the rustling company below before they sat down. And now it was she who
was the beautiful lady in the box. Was there, perhaps, some poor girl
somewhere like Nancy Bates, looking at the lovely new-comer, surveying
and envying her with a wistful gaze in all her finery, watching her look
down upon the crowd, then sink gracefully into her chair as Nancy did,
half retired behind the curtain? It seemed to her that she was two
people, herself in the box--Mrs. Arthur Curtis--and Nancy Bates watching
from her inferior place; and this doubled the enjoyment in the most
wonderful way. How she would have noticed everything, the beautiful
white mantle with its gold threads, the flower in the lady’s hair, her
dress, and everything about her! and with great, yet less absorbing
interest, the handsome young husband who completed her belongings, and
was so “devoted” to her. Nancy would scarcely have had eyes for the play
in her admiration of the beautiful lady; and now she was the beautiful
lady herself, in full possession of all the greatness a box at the play
could bestow! How wonderful it was, and delightful; but yet, perhaps,
not altogether so delightful and wonderful as it had seemed to Nancy in
the pit.
But when the curtain rose, Nancy was not so sure that it was delightful.
She was not sufficiently at her ease to enter into even the frank fun of
the _Bourgeois Gentilhomme_. She stared at M. Got with wondering
curiosity and doubt. No doubt it must be very amusing, for everybody
laughed, and so did Arthur; but Nancy could not laugh. What did that
queer man on the stage mean by all those strange antics of his?--trying
on his clothes in public, fencing with his maid-servant, making his
mouth into round O’s, when the still funnier man in the witch-like black
hat directed him to do so. It was all strange to her. She puzzled over
him, and could not make him out. “What is he saying?” she whispered to
Arthur when there was a wilder laugh than usual; but before she could
understand what Arthur whispered back, laughing, there was another burst
of amusement, and she was thrown out again. At first the sensation was
only disappointment, but by and by it became irritation. She could not
bear to feel herself the only one who did not know. High up in the
gallery above her, she could see a little French girl in a cap, who was
enjoying it with all her heart. And Arthur, though he tried to explain
all the jokes, forgot now and then, and gave himself up to the fun too,
and never thought of her sitting there who did not know what it meant,
and could not possibly enjoy it. The doubtful smile which she kept on
her face for the first scene or two, gave way to a fixed and somewhat
sullen stare. She fixed her eyes obstinately on the stage, and gazed at
the fun with unsympathising face, blank and immovable. If M. Got had
seen her, she would have been like a beautiful nightmare to him; and as
a matter of fact, that inimitable actor played all his pranks before
Nancy without conveying a single humorous idea to her mind, or one smile
to her face. How weary, how angry, how dull and miserable she grew while
the house rang with laughter, and all that fun went on under her eyes,
now sore with staring! All this time the little French girl in the cap,
up above, a poor little girl, not at all equal even to Nancy Bates,
laughed till the tears came to her eyes; and Arthur laughed, untiring,
too, though sometimes wondering a little why Nancy should be so quiet,
and stealing anxious looks at her, which she would not respond to, but
kept her eyes riveted on the stage. When the curtain fell, she gave a
sigh of relief, but turned her back upon Arthur, and would not answer
his questions as to how she had enjoyed it. Enjoyed it! How could he ask
her, he who had done nothing but laugh, and never cared for her. When he
rose, she rose too, but repulsed his attempts to wrap her cloak more
closely round her.
“It will do very well as it is,” she said, twitching it out of his hand.
“What is the matter?” he asked, wistfully, drawing her arm through his,
not without a little resistance on her part.
“The matter? What should be the matter? I am only tired, and I shall be
glad to get home,” said Nancy.
“I have made you do too much. I have dragged you about and worn you out,
my poor darling!” cried Arthur, and he was full of compunctions, half
carrying her downstairs. But when they got into the little _coupé_ which
waited for them, she burst forth.
“I can’t see what there was so very amusing. I don’t think it could be
good French,” cried Nancy. “I don’t pretend that I can talk like you,
but I learned French at school, and I am sure I could understand if it
was good. You call that acting! I did not think he was clever at all.”
“My love,” said poor Arthur, “it was the great Got, the best comic actor
in the world, I think. I never saw anyone like him.”
“I have seen a dozen better,” cried Nancy. “What did he do? nothing but
make a fool of himself, putting on those ridiculous clothes, and dancing
and singing, and learning lessons, an old man! The great Go! I wished he
would go, I am sure, long before he did go,” she said, recovering her
spirits a little by means of her pun. But the process was not so
successful in respect to Arthur. He did not say anything, but shrugged
his shoulders, which fortunately she did not perceive.
“I see,” he said, at last. “That is not the kind of acting you care for;
the higher walks perhaps would please you better. We will try something
quite different to-morrow.”
“Oh, to-morrow!” she said, with a little shiver. This delight of the
play had already exploded for Nancy; and she recollected with dismay
that they had agreed to go to a play _every night_! Was this how her
life was to be spent? She thought regretfully of her mother and sisters
sitting round the table, chatting about everything that had happened,
and everything that was going to happen. The parlour was dingy, and she
had thought of it with a wondering recoil of half disgust in comparison
with her _appartement_, and all its coquetries, its white carpets and
curtains; but she had never been so tired, so worn with trying to be
happy at home. The little wood fire, however, was burning brightly, and
the wax-candles lighted, and the pretty sitting-room looked very
comfortable when they got back to the hotel, which they began to call
“home,” with easy desecration of that word upon which the English pride
themselves. Arthur put her into a comfortable chair, and made her take
some wine, and petted and consoled her. Poor Arthur, he was disappointed
too, but he concealed it manfully. His character was developing in this
unexpected probation, he was growing patient, forbearing, ready to make
all sorts of compromises and sacrifices, to ensure that his young wife
should be happy. He had not been so good or so forbearing in his former
relationships, when everything had been done to please him; but in
marriage, if one will not be accommodating, why the other must, there is
no changing that necessity of nature. This union which had cost so much
must not turn out a failure. If she would not exert herself, he must.
Therefore he swallowed his disappointment in respect to the immediate
evening, and in respect to the narrowing of future resources, which, if
Nancy could not be made to like the theatre, would be very serious, and
also the deeper disappointment, which he scarcely allowed himself to
look at, of finding in Nancy less understanding than he thought. He sat
over the fire a little when she had gone to bed and pondered it all.
After all, perhaps, it was not unnatural that a young girl who had no
experience, and did not understand French, should not all at once
appreciate Molière, even when interpreted by Got. Was it to be expected,
was it likely? Arthur began to say to himself that his disappointment
was the fault of his exaggerated expectations, and that he had been very
foolish; poor Nancy, what an ordeal he had subjected her to! But he
would not be discouraged, he would try again. Something romantic and
sensational at the Porte St. Martin, or a sentimental comedy, such as
was running at the Gymnase would do better. He would try that,
something that would interest her. Arthur knew a good deal about the
theatres, and he felt sure that one or the other would supply what was
wanted. But there was a vague depression in his mind, notwithstanding
the bright fire and the white carpets which were so warm and soft. This
first effort had not been a success. Nancy had not responded to his
call; it was, he supposed, his fault, but it was depressing. There was
nothing injurious to Nancy in the comparison that suggested itself. He
thought involuntarily of Lucy, how she would have laughed at Got’s
acting, how lightly she would have come in and sat with him over the
fire, and talked it all over, and enjoyed it a second time. All that
this proved was the advantages of education--it proved nothing more--and
he did not want to change Nancy for Lucy, or to abandon the ventures of
this strange and alarming double existence, which, having once begun for
him, could never end except by death. The little failures, the
continual perils of opposition and resistance, excited at least, if they
did not delight him. Life was no longer tame and monotonous whatever
else might be said.