IT was an evening early in May. The maples were covered with their
little seed-pods, like the crescents of the Moslem hosts they hung redly
in the evening air. The new leaf-tips of the poplars shone out like
silver blooms. The mountain-ash-trees stood with their virginal branches
outlined against the filmy rose and gray of the evening sky, their
slender leaves half open. Everything swam in the hazy light; the air was
full of gold motes; in the sky lay a few strands of cloud, touched with
almost imperceptible rose. At the upper window of a house in De Musset
Street, Maurice Ruelle looked down upon the trees covered with the misty
light. His window was high above everything, and the house itself stood
alone on the brow of a little cliff that commanded miles of broken
country. Maurice was propped up at the window, and had a shawl thrown
about his shoulders. The room was close; a little wood-fire was dying
away in the open stove.
“Maurice, Maurice, I’m sick of life. I will be an adventuress.”
Maurice turned his head to look at the speaker. She was seated on the
floor, leaning on her slanted arm, which was thrown behind her to
support her weight.
“Well, my dear sister, you are ambitious—”
“Don’t be bitter, Maurice.”
“I’m not bitter; I know you are ambitious; I am proud of you, you know.
I don’t see why you have to nurse me; fate is cruel to you.”
“Oh, but I don’t nurse you, you know that; what’s my nursing good for? I
only wish we had money enough to send you away for these terrible
winters, or give you a room in some fine hospital.”
Maurice watched the birds dropping through the glow. A little maid
brought in candles. Eloise began to walk up and down the room
restlessly.
“Ah, well, we haven’t the money,” Maurice sighed.
“Money—money—it’s not altogether a matter of money; to me it’s a
matter of life.”
“Well, to me it’s hardly a matter of money or of life.”
“Maurice, you must not think of that; I forbid it. I must do something.
I feel that I can succeed. Look at me, Maurice—tell me now—”
She stood with her head thrown back; and poised lightly, and with a
little frown on her face.
“Superb!” said her brother.
“I know I’ll do something desperate,” she said. “I must live; I was made
to.”
“Yes, my dear, that is the difference between us.”
“Maurice, how dare you; I forbid it; I have decided. You will go south,
and I will begin to live. I am going to stop wishing.”
“Well, I have long ago ceased to wish; wishing was the only passion I
ever had; I have given it up. But I have not wished for money; sometimes
I have wished for health—”
He did not finish his sentence; he only thought of what he had longed
for more than anything else, the love of his beautiful, impulsive
sister. Eloise was dusting her geranium leaves. Maurice looked from his
window into the tree on which the leaves were not yet thick enough to
hide the old nests.
A short time after this a rather curious advertisement appeared in one
of the city papers. It read: “Very handsome old oak furniture.
Secretaire with small drawers. A dower chest and a little table. Each
article richly carved. For particulars call at No. 68 Rue Alfred de
Musset, Viger.”
Eloise read this advertisement to her brother.
“What does this mean?” he asked. “We have no such furniture, but it is
our number true enough. Is this the commencement?”
“Yes, my dear, that is what it is.”
The next day callers in response to this advertisement began to arrive.
Eloise answered the bell herself. The first was a rather shabby old man
who wore a tall hat and green glasses. He produced a crumpled clipping
from the paper, and, smoothing it out, handed it to Eloise.
“I have come to buy this second-hand furniture,” he explained, holding
his hat by the brim. Eloise looked at the advertisement as if she had
never seen it before.
“There must be some mistake,” she said. “I have no such furniture.”
“I have not mistaken the number—No. 68 Rue Alfred de Musset.”
“Yes, but the printer must have made a mistake; this is not the place.”
Many times that day she had to give unpromising looking people the same
answer. Every one of them accepted the situation cheerfully; certainly
it must have been a mistake. Three letters came also with inquiries
about the furniture. One of these Eloise was tempted to answer; but she
resolved to wait a day or two. The next day no one came at all; but on
the next, about four o’clock in the afternoon, a young man drove up in a
dog-cart. He left his horse, and walked rapidly through the little
garden to the house. He was a handsome vigorous-looking youth. He rang
somewhat violently; and Eloise answered the summons. She opened the door
a foot, and the caller could only see a bit of her white dress.
“I have called to see the furniture you have advertised,” he said.
The door opened slowly, and, taking this as an invitation to enter, he
stepped into the hall. He could not tell why, but he expected to see an
old woman behind the door; instead he saw a very graceful girl holding
the door-knob between her fingers. Without a word she preceded him with
an air of shyness, and led the way into the front room. He glanced about
for the furniture; it was evidently not there. She asked him to be
seated.
“My father wanted me to come out and look at the things you advertised,”
he said.
“You are very good, Monsieur.”
“Not at all; my father picks up these things for the house, when they
are really valuable.”
“These are very valuable.”
She still wore an air of shyness, and looked abstractedly from the
window into a lilac-bush; she seemed nervous and apprehensive.
“Could you let me see them?”
There was a noise upstairs. Eloise half started from her chair.
“I beg of you not to speak so loudly.”
He relapsed into a whisper.
“I beg pardon, I was not conscious of speaking too loudly.”
“It is not that, but—I cannot explain.” She ended abruptly. “You see,”
she said, hesitatingly, “I wish you had come yesterday.”
“Have you promised them to some one else?”
“No, not at all; but yesterday it might have been possible, to-day it is
impossible to show it to you.”
“When can I see it?”
“I am unfortunate—I cannot say when. It is my brother’s—but it must be
sold.”
An expression of slight distress crossed her face.
“Does he not want it sold?”
“Monsieur, I beg of you not to question me; I am in great perplexity.”
She continued, after a moment’s pause, “You have rarely seen things so
exquisite; the secretaire has a secret cabinet, the chest is carved with
a scene of nymphs in a wood; the table is a beautiful little table.” She
figured these articles in the air with an imaginative wave of her hand.
The young man began to regard her with some interest; he remarked to
himself that she was a lovely girl.
“I’m sorry my call is inopportune, I will come again.” He left his card
on the table.
“Perhaps when you come again it will be more convenient,” she said,
following him at some distance to the door. He opened it himself, and
went down the steps; as he looked back it was slowly shutting, and he
caught a glimpse of her delicate white dress as it closed. Eloise took
up the card. The name was Pierre Pechito. She knew the name; it was
borne by one of the richest of the city merchants. She took the card up
to Maurice. He held it in his emaciated fingers.
“Is this the end of Chapter One?” he asked. “Well, he may never come
back; and what will you do with him if he does come back?”
“Oh, he will come; as for the rest, we must succeed. But there is one
thing, Maurice, you must be the invisible ogre; you must rage about here
as wildly as you can, while I am working out our destiny downstairs.”
“My destiny?” he asked, with a falling touch of sadness in his accent.
A few days after this Pierre returned. “May I come in?” he asked, as
Eloise held the door open hesitatingly.
“If you wish, Monsieur.” They sat a moment silently in the parlor.
“Monsieur,” said Eloise, commencing hurriedly but determinedly, “in this
life everything is uncertain; so much depends upon mere circumstances,
which are too obscure for us to control. I am willing to show you the
furniture, but how much depends upon that!” She rose with the air of a
heroine, and led the way to the foot of the stairs. Pierre followed. She
had ascended three steps, and he had his hand on the newel post, when
there was a crash in the room above. Eloise turned suddenly and leaned
against the banister, glancing up the stairs, and extending her hand to
keep Pierre back. “Monsieur, for the love of heaven do not come on, go
back—go back into the room, I beg of you.”
“I am leaving you in danger, Mademoiselle.”
“I am accustomed to it. I beg of you.” She accompanied these words with
an imploring gesture. Pierre went into the room, where he paced up and
down. The noise increased in violence, and then ceased altogether.
Eloise returned to the room; she leaned from the window, breathing
convulsively; she plucked one of the half-grown lilac leaves and bit it
through and through.
“Yet the furniture must be sold,” she said aloud. Pierre took a step
toward her.
“Mademoiselle, you are in distress. May I not help you? I am able to.
You can command me.”
“Alas, Monsieur, you mean I can command your wealth.” Pierre was
profoundly moved at the sorrow in her girlish voice.
“I mean I would help you; I want to do what I can for you.”
“Let us go no farther,” she said, with her eyes fixed on the floor. “I
must not come into your happy life.” There was a trace of bitterness in
her tone.
“I have undertaken to buy the furniture,” he said, with a smile. “I will
not give up so soon.”
“Maurice, Maurice, you are a splendid ogre!” said Eloise, throwing open
the door.
“It is terribly exhausting,” he said, with a faint smile.
When Pierre next came it was raining quietly through a silver haze; the
little maid opened the door; a moment later Eloise came into the room.
When she spoke her voice sounded restrained; and to Pierre she seemed
completely different.
“I have deceived you,” she commenced, without prelude, “there is no
furniture to sell.” To all his questions or remonstrances she gave him
this answer, as if she were afraid to trust herself to other words,
standing with her eyes cast to the floor, and an expressionless face.
But when she seemed the most distant, as if she could not recede
further, she burst into tears. Pierre hurried toward her—“Mademoiselle,
I cannot address you by name; you cannot deceive me; you are in great
distress. I beg you not to think of the furniture; it is not necessary
that these things of wood should trouble you further; to-day I did not
come to see it, I came to see you.”
“Oh, Monsieur,” she sobbed, “you must never come here again,
never—never!”
“Make no mistake, I will come, at least until I can help you, until I
know your story.” He gained her hand.
“Monsieur, I cannot accept your assistance; but your kindness demands my
story.”
She told it. She was a lovely girl caught in a net of circumstances. She
was an orphan. Her parents had left her and her brother a little
money—too little to live on—they existed. Her brother was a
cripple—how often had she wished she was dead—he was wicked. She
hinted at unkindness, at tyranny. It was necessary to sell these
heir-looms. (Here Pierre pressed her hand, “You could not deceive me,”
he said.) But he would not hear of it. Her life was intolerable—but she
must live it to the end—to the end. “If I could have deceived you,
Monsieur, I would have done so.” A smile shimmered through her tears.
Pierre pressed her hand; she softly drew it away. Suddenly there was a
crash in the room above; a light shower of dry white-wash was thrown
down around them; the sound of an inhuman voice came feebly down the
stairs. “I must go, do not detain me,” she cried, as Pierre tried to
intercept her. He endeavored to hold her at the foot of the stairs. “Do
not go, I beg of you.” She turned sweetly toward him. “I must go; it is
my duty; you do yours.” The tears were not yet dry on her eyelids.
Pierre watched her flutter upstairs like a dove flying into a hawk’s
nest. His pulses were pounding at his wrists. “I wish I knew what my
duty was,” he said to himself. As he left the house he glanced up at the
window, a handkerchief dropped down; he pressed it to his lips and
thrust it into his bosom. When he was out of sight he examined it. It
was a dainty thing of the most delicate fabric; in one corner were the
words, “Eloise Ruelle.”
Eloise found Maurice almost fainting with his exertion. When he
recovered, he said—
“Is the game worth the candle?”
“Well, we will see.”
“Eloise, you have been crying.”
“I cry easily, I do everything easily.”
Maurice turned away and gazed from the window. The rain was so fine it
seemed to be a rising mist; the trees were hidden, like plants in the
bottom of the sea; somewhere the sun was shining, for there was a silver
bar in the mist.
Pierre was not slow in coming again; but, instead of seeing Eloise, he
had a note thrust into his hand by the little serving-maid. It ran: “I
cannot see you. _He_ forbids it. Who could have told that our last word
was ‘good-by.’ If I could have spoken again I would have thanked you.
How can I ever do so now? Adieu.” Reading this on the step, he scrawled
hurriedly on a leaf of his note-book: “I would not have you thank me,
but I must see you again. Your risk is great, but I will be here
to-morrow night; we will have the darkness, and all I ask is ten
minutes. Is it too much?”
He gave the note to the maid, who shut the door. The house looked
absolutely sphinx-like as he walked away from it.
The next night was moist with a touch of frost. A little smoke from
burning leaves hung in the air with a pungent odor. The scent of the
lilacs fell with the wind when it moved. Eloise was muffled
picturesquely in a cloak. Pierre was holding her hand, which she had not
reclaimed. “I have dared everything to come,” she said softly.
“You are brave, braver than I was to ask you.”
“You know my story. You are the only one.”
“That binds us.”
“How can I thank you?”
“You must not try, I have done nothing.”
Just then a burning brand was hurled from the window; it fell into the
lilac-tree where it devoured a cone of blossom and withered the leaves
around it. It threw up a little springing flame which danced a light on
Eloise, who had cowered into a corner by the steps, with her hand over
her eyes. Pierre went to her. “Tell me,” he said, “what does this mean?”
“Oh,” she moaned, “he suspects we are here; he always has a fire on the
hottest nights, and he is throwing the sticks out.” This led Pierre to
expect another one. He caught her by the arm.
“You must come out of danger,” he said, “one might fall on your dress.”
The brand was glowing in spots. He tore it out of the bush and trampled
on it. They went to the other side of the steps. It was the season of
quick growth. In one day thousands of violets had lit their little tips
of yellow fire in the tangle of the underwood; in one day the tulips
were moulded into fragile cups of flame burning steady in the sunlight;
in one day the lilacs had burst their little clove-like blooms, and were
crowding in the dark-green leaves.
Pierre was saying excitedly: “Listen to me. This thing cannot go
further. I love you, I am yours. I must protect you. You cannot deny
me.” Eloise tried to stop him with an imploring gesture. “No,” he cried,
“you must hear me! you must be mine! I will take you away from here.”
“Oh, do not tempt me!” cried Eloise. “I must stay here. I cannot leave
him.”
“You must leave him. What hold has he upon you? I will never let you go
back to this torment,—never. Eloise,” he continued seriously,
“sometimes we have to decide in a moment the things of a life-time. This
is such a moment. Before I pluck this blossom,” he said, leaning down to
a dwarf lilac-bush bearing one bloom, “I want you to promise to be my
wife.” A moment later he had plucked the flower, but had dropped it, and
had caught Eloise in his arms. She stifled a cry, and gave herself to
him.
“Maurice, Maurice,” cried Eloise, “look at me, I am triumphant!” He
hardly looked at her; he was cowering over the fire, which had
smouldered away, and in which the ashes were fluttering about like
moths.
“I have done what you asked, that is all,” he said, with an effort.
“But it is everything to me; I will never forget you, Maurice, no matter
how powerful I may become.”
“Alas! you need not remember me for long. Perhaps I will have what I
wanted here, in some other star.”
* * * * *
A few evenings later Eloise drew the door after her: “Hush!” she said,
“the least noise will disturb him.” She hesitated, and left the door
ajar.
“Do you regret?” whispered Pierre.
“No, but I am leaving everything.”
“Yes, even the old furniture; if it had not been for that I would never
have known you,” he said.
“Everything—everything,” murmured Eloise.
She listened for a moment, and then shut the door softly on the empty
house: Maurice had gone to the hospital that afternoon; the little maid
had been discharged.
“But,” she said, holding Pierre’s arm and leaning away from him with her
sweet smile, “I have also gained all—everything.”
The next moment they had gone cautiously away.
This was the beginning of her career.