A SUDDEN JOURNEY
At the end of the Promenade des Anglais, on the pleasant road bordered
with tamarind-trees, stands, amid a grove of cork-oaks and eucalypti, a
charming white villa with pink shutters. A Russian lady, the Countess
Woreseff, had it built five years ago, and occupied it one winter. Then,
tired of the monotonous noise of the waves beating on the terrace and the
brightness of the calm blue sky, she longed for the mists of her native
country, and suddenly started for St. Petersburg, leaving that charming
residence to be let.
It was there, amid rhododendrons and strawberry-trees in full bloom,
that Micheline and Serge had taken up their abode. Until that day the
Princess had scarcely travelled. Her mother, always occupied in
commercial pursuits, had never left Paris. Micheline had remained with
her. During this long journey, accomplished in most luxurious style,
she had behaved like a child astonished at everything, and pleased at the
least thing. With her face close to the window she saw through the
transparent darkness of a lovely winter's night, villages and forests
gliding past like phantoms. Afar off, in the depths of the country, she
caught sight of a light glimmering, and she loved to picture a family
gathered by the fire, the children asleep and the mother working in the
silence.
Children! She often thought of them, and never without a sigh of regret
rising to her lips. She had been married for some months, and her dreams
of becoming a mother had not been realized. How happy she would have
been to have a baby, with fair hair, to fondle and kiss! Then the idea
of a child reminded her of her own mother. She thought of the deep love
one must feel for a child. And the image of the mistress, sad and alone,
in the large house of the Rue Saint-Dominique, came to her mind. A vague
remorse seized her heart. She felt she had behaved badly. She said to
herself: "If, to punish me, Heaven will not grant me a child!" She wept,
and soon her grief and trouble vanished with her tears. Sleep
overpowered her, and when she awoke it was broad daylight and they were
in Provence.
From that moment everything was dazzling. The arrival at Marseilles; the
journey along the coast, the approach to Nice, were all matters of
ecstacy to Micheline. But it was when the carriage, which was waiting
for them at the railway station, stopped at the gates of the villa, that
she broke into raptures. She could not feast her eyes enough on the
scene which was before her. The blue sea, the sky without a cloud, the
white houses rising on the hill amid the dark foliage, and in the
distance the mountaintops covered with snow, and tinged with pink under
the brilliant rays of the sun. All this vigorous and slightly wild
nature surprised the Parisienne. It was a new experience. Dazzled by
the light and intoxicated with the perfumes, a sort of languor came over
her. She soon recovered and became quite strong--something altogether
new for her, and she felt thoroughly happy.
The life of the Prince and the Princess became at Nice what it had been
in Paris during the early days of their marriage. Visitors flocked to
their house. All that the colony could reckon of well-known Parisians
and foreigners of high repute presented themselves at the villa. The
fetes recommenced. They gave receptions three times a week; the other
evenings Serge went to the Cercle.
This absorbing life had gone on for two months. It was the beginning of
February, and already nature was assuming a new appearance under the
influence of spring. One evening, three people--two gentlemen and a
lady--stepped out of a carriage at the villa gates, and found themselves
face to face with a traveller who had come on foot. Two exclamations
broke out simultaneously.
"Marechal!" "Monsieur Savinien!"
"You! at Nice? And by what miracle?"
"A miracle which makes you travel fifteen leagues an hour in exchange for
a hundred and thirty-three francs first-class, and is called the
Marseilles express!"
"I beg your pardon, my dear friend. I have not introduced you to
Monsieur and Mademoiselle Herzog."
"I have already had the honor of meeting Mademoiselle Herzog at Madame
Desvarennes's," said Marechal, bowing to the young girl, without
appearing to notice the father.
"You were going to the villa?" asked Savinien. "We, too, were going.
But how is my aunt? When did you leave her?"
"I have not left her."
"What's that you say?"
"I say that she is here."
Savinien let his arms drop in profound consternation to show how
difficult it was for him to believe what was going on. Then, in a faint
treble voice, he said:
"My aunt! At Nice! Promenade des Anglais! That's something more
wonderful than the telephone and phonograph! If you had told me that the
Pantheon had landed one fine night on the banks of the Paillon, I should
not be more astonished. I thought Madame Desvarennes was as deeply
rooted in Paris as the Colonne Vendome! But tell me, what is the object
of this journey?"
"A freak."
"Which manifested itself--"
"Yesterday morning at breakfast. Pierre Delarue, who is going to finish
his business in Algeria, and then settle in France, came to say 'Good-by'
to Madame Desvarennes. A letter arrived from the Princess. She
commenced reading it, then all at once she exclaimed 'Cayrol and his wife
arrived at Nice two days ago!' Pierre and I were astonished at the tone
in which she uttered these words. She was lost in thought for a few
moments, then she said to Pierre: 'You are leaving tonight for
Marseilles? Well, I shall go with you. You will accompany me to Nice.'
And turning toward me, she added: 'Marechal, pack up your portmanteau.
I shall take you with me."'
While speaking, they had walked across the garden, and reached the steps
leading to the villa.
"Nothing is easier than to explain this sudden journey," remarked
Mademoiselle Herzog. "On learning that Monsieur and Madame Cayrol were
at Nice with the Princess, Madame Desvarennes must have felt how very
lonely she was in Paris. She had a longing to be near them, and
started."
Herzog listened attentively, and seemed to be seeking the connection
which should exist between the arrival of the Cayrols and the departure
of Madame Desvarennes.
"The funniest thing to me is Marechal taking a holiday," observed
Savinien. "They are still at dinner," he added, entering the drawing-
room, through the great doors of which sounds of voices and rattling of
plates were heard.
"Well, let us wait for them; we are in agreeable company," said Herzog,
turning toward Marechal, who only answered by a cold bow.
"What are you going to do here, Marechal?" inquired Savinien. "You will
be awfully bored."
"Why? Once in a way I am going to enjoy myself and be a swell. You will
teach me, Monsieur Savinien. It cannot be very difficult. It is only
necessary to wear a dove-colored coat like you, a gardenia in my
buttonhole like Monsieur Le Bride, frizzled hair like Monsieur du
Tremblay, and to assail the bank at Monaco."
"Like all these gentlemen," said Suzanne, gayly, "you are a gambler
then?"
"I have never touched a card."
"But then you ought to have great good luck," said the young girl.
Herzog had come up to them.
"Will you go partners?" he asked of Marechal. "We will divide the
winnings."
"You are too kind," replied Marechal, dryly, turning away.
He could not get used to Herzog's familiarity, and there was something in
the man which displeased him greatly. There was, he thought, a police-
court atmosphere about him.
Suzanne, on the contrary, interested him. The simple, lively, and frank
young girl attracted him, and he liked to talk with her. On several
occasions, at Madame Desvarennes's, he had been her partner. There was
through this a certain intimacy between them which he could not extend to
the father.
Herzog had that faculty, fortunately for him, of never appearing offended
at what was said to him. He took Savinien's arm in a familiar manner and
asked: "Have you noticed that the Prince has looked very preoccupied for
the last few days?"
"I don't wonder at it," replied Savinien. "He has been very unlucky at
cards. It is all very well for his wife, my charming cousin, to be rich,
but if he is going on like that it won't last long!"
The two men withdrew to the window.
Suzanne went up to Marechal. She had resumed her thoughtful air. He saw
her advancing, and, guessing what she was going to say, felt
uncomfortable at having to tell an untruth if he did not wish to hurt her
feelings by brutal frankness.
"Monsieur Marechal," she began, "how is it that you are always so cold
and formal with my father?"
"My dear young lady, there is a great difference between your father and
me. I keep my place, that's all."
The young girl shook her head sadly.
"It is not that; you are amiable and ever friendly with me--"
"You are a woman, and the least politeness--"
"No! My father must have hurt your feelings unwittingly; for he is very
good. I have asked him, and he did not seem to understand what I meant.
But my questions drew his attention to you. He thinks highly of you and
would like to see you filling a position more in harmony with your merit.
You know that Monsieur Cayrol and my father have just launched a
tremendous undertaking?"
"The 'Credit European'?"
"Yes. They will have offices in all the commercial centres of European
commerce. Would you like the management of one of these branches?"
"I, Mademoiselle?" cried Marechal, astonished, and already asking himself
what interest Herzog could have in making him leave the house of
Desvarennes.
"The enterprise is colossal," continued Suzanne, "and frightens me at
times. Is it necessary to be so rich? I would like my father to retire
from these enormous speculations into which he has thrown himself, body
and soul. I have simple tastes. My father wishes to make a tremendous
fortune for me, he says. All he undertakes is for me, I know. It seems
to me that he runs a great risk. That is why I am talking to you. I am
very superstitious, and I fancy if you were with us it would bring us
luck."
Suzanne, while speaking, had leaned toward Marechal. Her face reflected
the seriousness of her thoughts. Her lovely eyes implored. The young
man asked himself how this charming girl could belong to that horrible
Herzog.
"Believe me that I am deeply touched, Mademoiselle, by the favor you have
done me," said he, with emotion. "I owe it solely to your kindness, I
know; but I do not belong to myself. I am bound to Madame Desvarennes by
stronger ties than those of interest--those of gratitude."
"You refuse?" she cried, painfully.
"I must."
"The position you fill is humble."
"I was very glad to accept it at a time when my daily bread was not
certain."
"You have been reduced," said the young girl, with trembling voice, "to
such--"
"Wretchedness. Yes, Mademoiselle, my outset in life was hard. I am
without relations. Mother Marechal, a kind fruiterer of the Rue Pavee au
Marais, found me one morning by the curbstone, rolled in a number of the
Constitutionnel, like an old pair of boots. The good woman took me home,
brought me up and sent me to college. I must tell you that I was very
successful and gained a scholarship. I won all the prizes. Yes, and I
had to sell my gilt-edged books from the Lycee Charlemagne in the days of
distress. I was eighteen when my benefactress, Mother Marechal, died.
I was without help or succor. I tried to get along by myself. After ten
years of struggling and privations I felt physical and moral vigor giving
way. I looked around me and saw those who overcame obstacles were
stronger than I. I felt that I was doomed not to make way in the world,
not being one of those who could command, so I resigned myself to obey.
I fill a humble position as you know, but one which satisfies my wants.
I am without ambition. A little philosophical, I observe all that goes
on around me. I live happily like Diogenes in his tub."
"You are a wise man," resumed Suzanne. "I, too, am a philosopher, and I
live amid surroundings which do not please me. I, unfortunately, lost my
mother when I was very young, and although my father is very kind, he has
been obliged to neglect me a little. I see around me people who are
millionaires or who aspire to be. I am doomed to receive the attentions
of such men as Le Bride and Du Tremblay--empty-headed coxcombs, who court
my money, and to whom I am not a woman, but a sack of ducats trimmed with
lace."
"These gentlemen are the modern Argonauts. They are in search of the
Golden Fleece," observed Marechal.
"The Argonauts!" cried Suzanne, laughing. "You are right. I shall
never call them anything else."
"Oh, they will not understand you!" said Marechal, gayly. "I don't
think they know much of mythology."
"Well, you see I am not very happy in the bosom of riches," continued the
young girl. "Do not abandon me. Come and talk with me sometimes. You
will not chatter trivialities. It will be a change from the others."
And, nodding pleasantly to Marechal, Mademoiselle Herzog joined her
father, who was gleaning details about the house of Desvarennes from
Savinien.
The secretary remained silent for a moment.
"Strange girl!" he murmured. "What a pity she has such a father."
The door of the room in which Monsieur and Mademoiselle Herzog, Marechal
and Savinien were, opened, and Madame Desvarennes entered, followed by
her daughter, Cayrol, Serge and Pierre. The room, at the extreme end of
the villa, was square, surrounded on three sides by a gallery shut in by
glass and stocked with greenhouse plants. Lofty archways, half veiled
with draperies, led to the gallery. This room had been the favorite one
of Countess Woreseff. She had furnished it in Oriental style, with low
seats and large divans, inviting one to rest and dream during the heat of
the day. In the centre of the apartment was a large ottoman, the middle
of which formed a flower-stand. Steps led down from the gallery to the
terrace whence there was a most charming view of sea and land.
On seeing his aunt enter, Savinien rushed forward and seized both her
hands. Madame Desvarennes's arrival was an element of interest in his
unoccupied life. The dandy guessed at some mysterious business and
thought it possible that he might get to know it. With open ears and
prying eyes, he sought the meaning of the least words.
"If you knew, my dear aunt, how surprised I am to see you here," he
exclaimed in his hypocritical way.
"Not more so than I am to find myself here," said she, with a smile.
"But, bah! I have slipped my traces for a week."
"And what are you going to do here?" continued Savinien.
"What everybody does. By-the-bye, what do they do?" asked Madame
Desvarennes, with vivacity.
"That depends," answered the Prince. "There are two distinct populations
here. On the one hand, those who take care of themselves; on the other,
those who enjoy themselves. For the former there is the constitutional
every morning in the sun, with slow measured steps on the Promenade des
Anglais. For the latter there are excursions, races, regattas. The
first economize their life like misers; the second waste it like
prodigals. Then night comes on, and the air grows cold. Those who take
care of themselves go home, those who amuse themselves go out. The first
put on dressing-gowns; the second put on ball-dresses. Here, the house
is quiet, lit up by a night-light; there, the rooms sparkle with light,
and resound with the noise of music and dancing. Here they cough, there
they laugh. Infusion on the one hand, punch on the other. In fact,
everywhere and always, a contrast. Nice is at once the saddest and the
gayest town. One dies of over-enjoyment, and one amuses one's self at
the risk of dying."
"A sojourn here is very dangerous, then?"
"Oh! aunt, not so dangerous, nor, above all, so amusing as the Prince
says. We are a set of jolly fellows, who kill time between the dining-
room of the hotel, pigeon-shooting, and the Cercle, which is not so very
amusing after all."
"The dining-room is bearable," said Marechal, "but pigeon-shooting must
in time become--"
"We put some interest into the game."
"How so?"
"Oh! It is very simple: a gentleman with a gun in his hand stands before
the boxes which contain the pigeons. You say to me: 'I bet fifty louis
that the bird will fall.' I answer, 'Done.' The gentleman calls out,
'Pull;' the box opens, the pigeon flies, the shot follows. The bird
falls or does not fall. I lose or win fifty louis."
"Most interesting!" exclaimed Mademoiselle Herzog.
"Pshaw!" said Savinien with ironical indifference, "it takes the place
of 'trente et quarante,' and is better than 'odd or even' on the numbers
of the cabs which pass."
"And what do the pigeons say to that?" asked Pierre, seriously.
"They are not consulted," said Serge, gayly.
"Then there are races and regattas," continued Savinien.
"In which case you bet on the horses?" interrupted Marechal.
"Or on the boats."
"In fact, betting is applied to all circumstances of life?"
"Exactly; and to crown all, we have the Cercle, where we go in the
evening. Baccarat triumphs there. It is not very varied either: A
hundred louis? Done--Five. I draw. There are some people who draw at
five. Nine, I show up, I win or I lose, and the game continues."
"And that amid the glare of gas and the smoke of tobacco," said Marechal,
"when the nights are so splendid and the orange-trees smell so sweetly.
What a strange existence!"
"An existence for idiots, Marechal," sighed Savinien, "that I, a man of
business, must submit to, through my aunt's domineering ways! You know
now how men of pleasure spend their lives, my friend, and you might write
a substantial resume entitled, 'The Fool's Breviary.' I am sure it would
sell well."
Madame Desvarennes, who had heard the last words, was no longer
listening. She was lost in a deep reverie. She was much altered since
grief and trouble had come upon her; her face was worn, her temples
hollow, her chin was more prominent. Her eyes had sunk into her head,
and were surrounded by dark rims.
Serge, leaning against the wall near the window, was observing her. He
was wondering with secret anxiety what had brought Madame Desvarennes so
suddenly to his house after a separation of two months, during which time
she had scarcely written to Micheline. Was the question of money to be
resumed? Since the morning Madame had been smiling, calm and pleased
like a schoolgirl home for her holidays. This was the first time she had
allowed a sad expression to rest on her face. Her gayety was feigned
then.
A look crossing his made him start. Jeanne had just turned her eyes
toward him. For a second they met his own. Serge could not help
shuddering. Jeanne was calling his attention to Madame Desvarennes; she,
too, was observing her. Was it on their account she had come to Nice?
Had their secret fallen into her hands? He resolved to find out.
Jeanne had turned away her eyes from him. He could feast his on her now.
She had become more beautiful. The tone of her complexion had become
warmer. Her figure had developed. Serge longed to call her his own.
For a moment his hands trembled; his throat was dry, his heart seemed to
stop beating.
He tried to shake off this attraction, and walked to the centre of the
room. At the same time visitors were announced. Le Bride, with his
inseparable friend, Du Tremblay, escorting Lady Harton, Serge's beautiful
cousin, who had caused Micheline some anxiety on the day of her marriage,
but whom she no longer feared; then the Prince and Princess Odescalchi,
Venetian nobles, followed by Monsieur Clement Souverain, a young Belgian,
starter of the Nice races, a great pigeon shot, and a mad leader of
cotillons.
"Oh, dear me! my lady, all in black?" said Micheline, pointing to the
tight-fitting black satin worn by the English beauty.
"Yes, my dear Princess; mourning," replied Lady Harton, with a vigorous
shake of the hands. "Ball-room mourning--one of my best partners;
gentlemen, you know Harry Tornwall?"
"Countess Alberti's cavalier?" added Serge. "Well?"
"Well! he has just killed himself."
A concert of exclamations arose in the drawing-room, and the visitors
suddenly surrounded her.
"What! did you not know? It was the sole topic of conversation at
Monaco to-day. Poor Tornwall, being completely cleared out, went during
the night to the park belonging to the villa occupied by Countess
Alberti, and blew his brains out under her window."
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Micheline.
"It was very bad taste on your countryman's part," observed Serge.
"The Countess was furious, and said that Tornwall's coming to her house
to kill himself proved clearly to her that he did not know how to
behave."
"Do you wish to prevent those who are cleared out from blowing out their
brains?" inquired Cayrol. "Compel the pawnbrokers of Monaco to lend a
louis on all pistols."
"Well," retorted young Monsieur Souverain, "when the louis is lost the
players will still be able to hang themselves."
"Yes," concluded Marechal, "then at any rate the rope will bring luck to
others."
"Gentlemen, do you know that what you have been relating to us is very
doleful?" said Suzanne Herzog. "Suppose, to vary our impressions, you
were to ask us to waltz?"
"Yes, on the terrace," said Le Brede, warmly. "A curtain of orange-trees
will protect us from the vulgar gaze."
"Oh! Mademoiselle, what a dream!" sighed Du Tremblay, approaching
Suzanne. "Waltzing with you! By moonlight."
"Yes, friend Pierrot!" sang Suzanne, bursting into a laugh.
Already the piano, vigorously attacked by Pierre, desirous of making
himself useful since he could not be agreeable, was heard in the next
room. Serge had slowly approached Jeanne.
"Will you do me the favor of dancing with me?" he asked, softly.
The young woman started; her cheeks became pale, and in a sharp tone she
answered:
"Why don't you ask your wife?"
Serge smiled.
"You or nobody."
Jeanne raised her eyes boldly, and looking at him in the face, said,
defiantly:
"Well, then, nobody!"
And, rising, she took the arm of Cayrol, who was advancing toward her.
The Prince remained motionless for a moment, following them with his
eyes. Then, seeing his wife alone with Madame Desvarennes, he went out
on the terrace. Already the couples were dancing on the polished marble.
Joyful bursts of laughter rose in the perfumed air that sweet March
night. A deep sorrow came over Serge; an intense disgust with all
things. The sea sparkled, lit up by the moon. He had a mad longing to
seize Jeanne in his arms and carry her far away from the world, across
that immense calm space which seemed made expressly to rock sweetly
eternal loves.