"Aunt, dear aunt, don't believe a word of what he is going to tell you.
He is preparing to fib, to fib outrageously. If I hadn't interrupted him
at the beginning of his talk, he would have told you that he had made up
his mind to marry me from his and my earliest childhood."
"Of course!" exclaimed Gontran.
"Of course not," replied Marceline. "He was going to tell you that he
was a good little boy, having always loved his little cousin, and that
our marriage was a delightful romance of tenderness and sweetness."
"Why, yes, of course," repeated Gontran.
"Nonsense! The truth, Aunt Louise, the real truth, in short, is this,
never, never should we have been married if on the 17th of May, 1890,
between nine and eleven o'clock, he had not lost 34,000 points at
bezique at the club, and if all the boxes had not been sold, that same
night, at the Bouffes-Parisiens Theatre."
Gontran began to laugh.
"Oh, you can laugh as much as you please! You know very well that but
for this--on what does fate depend?--I should now be married and a
duchess, it is true; but Duchess of Courtalin, and not Duchess of
Lannilis. Well, perhaps that would have been better! At any rate, I wish
to give Aunt Louise the authentic history of our marriage."
"Tell away, if it amuses you," said Gontran.
"Yes, sir, it amuses me. You shall know all, Aunt Louise--all,
absolutely all; and I beg you to be judge of our quarrel."
This scene was taking place eight days after Marceline de Lorlauge, at
the Church of the Madeleine, before the altar, hidden under a mountain
of roses, had answered "yes," with just the right amount of nervousness
and emotion (neither too much nor too little, but exactly right), when
she was asked if she was willing to take for husband her cousin, Jean
Leopold Mathurin Arbert Gontran, Duke of Lannilis.
This marriage had been the great marriage of the season. There had been
an absolute crush under the colonnade and against the railings of the
church to see the bride walk down those fearful steps of the Madeleine.
What an important feat that is! Merely to be beautiful is not all that
is needful; it is necessary besides to know how to be beautiful. There
is an art about being pretty which requires certain preparations and
study. In society, as in the theatre, success rarely comes at once. Mme.
de Lannilis had the good-fortune to make her first appearance with
decisive success. She was at once quite easily and boldly at home in her
beauty; she had only to appear to triumph. Prince Nérins had not a
moment's hesitation concerning it, and he it is, as every one knows,
who, with general consent, has made himself the distributor of the
patents of supreme Parisian elegance; so while the new duchess, beneath
the fire of a thousand eyes and behind the ringing staffs, was taking
her first steps as a young married woman with calm assurance, Nérins,
struck with admiration, was giving way, under the colonnade of the
Madeleine, to veritable transports of enthusiasm. He went from group to
group repeating:
"She is aerial! There is no other expression for her--aerial! She does
not walk, she glides! If she had the fantasy, with one little kick of
her heel, she could raise herself lightly over the heads of those two
tall fellows with spears, cross the Place de la Concorde, and go and
place herself on the pediment of the Chamber of Deputies. Look at her
well; that is true beauty, radiant beauty, blazing beauty! She is a
goddess, a young goddess! she will reign long, gentlemen--as long as
possible."
The young goddess, for the present, did not go farther than Lannilis, in
Poitou, to her husband's home--her home--in a mansion that had seen many
Duchesses of Lannilis, but never one more charming, and never, it must
be said, one more absolutely in love. This little duchess of nineteen
was wild about this little duke of twenty-five, who was jealously
carrying her off for himself alone to a quiet and solitary retreat.
They had arrived Thursday, the 24th of June, at about two o'clock--on an
exquisite night beneath a star-spangled sky--and they were suddenly
astounded at receiving a letter from their Aunt Louise, dated July 1:
"Eight days' steady tête-à-tête," she wrote, "is enough, quite enough.
Trust to the experience of an old countrywoman, who would be delighted
to kiss her little nephew and niece. Don't eat all your love in the
bud--keep a little for the future."
Thursday, the 1st of July! Eight days! They had been eight days at
Lannilis! It was impossible! They tried to put some order in their
reflections. What had they done Friday, Saturday, and Sunday? But all
was vague, and became confused in their minds. The days and the nights,
and the nights and days. What had they done? It was always the same,
same thing; and the same thing had somehow never been the same thing.
They had just loved, loved, loved; and, quite given up to this very wise
occupation, they had completely forgotten that near Lannilis, in the old
residence of Chatellerault, there was dear old Aunt Louise, who was
expecting their first bridal visit--a visit which was due her, for she
had the best claim in the world, on account of her eighty-four years,
her kindness, and also because of the gift of a magnificent pearl
necklace to Marceline.
So it was necessary to be resigned, to leave off dreaming, and to come
back to reality; and it was during this visit that, before the old aunt,
much amused at the quarrel, this great dispute had abruptly burst forth
between the young married couple.
Aunt Louise had accepted the position of arbitrator, and, presiding over
the discussion, she had made the two contestants sit down before her in
arm-chairs, at a respectful distance. Marceline, before being seated,
had already taken the floor.
"Every one agreed upon this point (you know it, Aunt Louise; mamma must
often have told you in her letters)--every one was agreed on this point:
that there were really only two suitable matches for me--the Duke of
Lannilis here present, and the Duke of Courtalin. I had the weakness to
prefer him--him over there. Why? I can scarcely tell-a childish habit,
doubtless. We had played together when we were no higher than that at
being little husband and wife. I had remained faithful to that childhood
love, whereas he--"
"Whereas I--"
"All in due season, sir, and you will lose nothing by waiting. However,
there were all sorts of good reasons for preferring--the other one, who
had a larger fortune and was of more ancient nobility."
"Oh, as to that--in money, maybe, but as to birth--"
"It is indisputable! You are both dukes by patent."
"We in 1663."
"And the Courtalin--"
"In 1666 only."
"Agreed."
"Well, then?"
"Oh, just wait! I am posted on the question; mamma studied it thoroughly
when things looked, three months ago, as if I should be Duchess of
Courtalin. One morning mamma went to the archives with an old friend of
hers, a great historian, who is a member of the Institute. You date
from 1663, and the Courtalin from 1666; that is correct. But Louis
XIV., in 1672, by a special edict, gave the precedence to the
Courtalins; and you have not, I suppose, any idea of disputing what
Louis XIV. thought best to do. Now, Aunt Louise, can he?"
"Certainly not."
"But Saint Simon--"
"Oh, let us leave Saint Simon alone; he is prejudice and inaccuracy
itself! I know he is on your side, but that doesn't count; but I will,
to be agreeable to you, acknowledge that you are better looking and
taller than M. de Courtalin--"
"But--"
"Oh, my dear, I begin to see! You are dying for me to tell you that.
Well, yes, you are a fairly handsome man; but that is only a very
perishable advantage, and you have too much respect for
conventionalities to wish to make that equal to the decree of Louis XIV.
However, I loved you--I loved you faithfully, tenderly, fondly,
stupidly; yes, stupidly, for when I had come out in society, the year
before, in April, 1889, at Mme. de Fresnes's ball, when I had allowed my
poor, little, thin shoulders to be seen for the first time (I must have
been about seventeen), I noticed that the young marriageable men in our
set (they are all quoted, noted, and labelled) drew away from me with
strange, respectful deference. I appeared to be of no importance or
interest, in spite of my name, my dowry, and my eyes. You see, I had
singed myself. I had so ridiculously advertised my passion for you that
I no longer belonged to myself; I was considered as belonging to you. As
soon as I had put on my first long dress, which gave me at once the
right to think of marriage and speak of love, I had told all my friends
that I loved, and would never love or marry any one but you--you or the
convent. Yes, I had come to that! My friends had told their brothers and
cousins, who had repeated it to you (just what I wanted), but it put me
out of the race. Dare to say, sir, that it is not all true, strictly
true!"
"I am saying nothing--?"
"Because you are overcome, crushed by the evidence. You say nothing now,
but what did you say last year? Last year! When I think that we could
have been married since last year! A year, a whole year lost! And it was
so long, and it could have been so short! Well, he was there, at the
Fresnes' ball. He condescended to do me the honor of dancing three times
with me. I came home intoxicated, absolutely intoxicated with joy. But
that great happiness did not last long, for this is what that Gontran
the next day said to his friend Robert d'Aigremont, who told his sister
Gabrielle, who repeated it to me, that he saw clearly that they wished
to marry him to his cousin Marceline. I had, the day before, literally
thrown myself into his arms; he had thought right, from pure goodness of
heart, to show some pity for the love of the little school-girl, so he
had resolved to dance with me; but he had done, quite done--he wouldn't
be caught again. He would keep carefully away from coming-out balls;
they were too dangerous a form of gayety. Marriage did not tempt him in
the least. He had not had enough of a bachelor's life yet--besides, he
knew of nothing more absurd than those marriages between cousins. The
true pleasure of marriage, he said, must be to put into one's life
something new and unexpected, and to call by her first name, all at
once, on Tuesday morning, a person whom one didn't so call Monday night.
But a person whom one already knew well, where would be the pleasure? He
made a movement, Aunt Louise; did you see?"
"I saw--"
"He recognized the phrase."
"True. I remember--"
"Ah! but you did not say that phrase only--you said all the others. But
that is nothing as yet, Aunt Louise. Do you know what was his principal
objection to a marriage with me? Do you know what he told Robert? That
he had seen me in evening-dress the night before for the first time, and
that I was too thin! Too thin! Ah! that was a cruel blow to me! For it
was true. I was thin. The evening after Gabrielle had told me that awful
fact, that evening in undressing I looked at my poor little shoulders,
with their poor little salt-cellars, and I had a terrible spasm of
sorrow--a flood of tears that wouldn't stop--a torrent, a real torrent;
and then mamma appeared. I was alone, disrobed, hair flying, studying my
shoulders, deploring their meagreness--a true picture of despair! Mamma
took me in her arms. 'My angel, my poor dear, what is the matter?' I
answered only by sobbing. 'My child, tell me all.' Mamma was very
anxious, but I could not speak; tears choked my voice. 'My dearest, do
you wish to kill me?' So to reassure mamma I managed to say between my
sobs: 'I am too thin, mamma; last night Gontran thought me too thin!' At
that mamma began to laugh heartily; but as she was good-humored that
evening, after laughing she explained to me that she, at seventeen, had
been much thinner than I, and she promised me in the most solemn manner
that I should grow stouter. Mamma spoke true; I have fattened up. Will
you have the goodness, sir, to declare to our aunt that the salt-cellars
have entirely disappeared, and that you cannot have against me, in that
respect, any legitimate cause of complaint?"
"I will declare so very willingly; but you will permit me to add--"
"I will permit you no such thing. I have the floor, let me speak; but
you will soon have a chance to justify yourself. I intend to put you
through a little cross-questioning."
"I'll wait, then--"
"Yes, do. So last spring I began my first campaign. I do not know, Aunt
Louise, what the customs were in your time, but I know that to-day, at
the present time, the condition of young girls is one of extreme
severity. We are kept confined, closely confined, till eighteen, for
mamma was very indulgent in bringing me out when I was only seventeen;
but mamma is goodness itself, and then she isn't coquettish for a
sou--she didn't mind admitting that she had a marriageable daughter. All
mothers are not like that, and I know some who are glad to put off the
public and official exhibition of their poor children so as to gain a
year. At the same time that they race at Longchamps and Chantilly the
great fillies of the year, they take from their boxes the great
heiresses of the year who are ripe for matrimony, and in a series of
white balls given for that purpose, between Easter Sunday and the Grand
Prix, they are made to take little trial gallops before connoisseurs.
They have to work rapidly and find a buyer before the Grand Prix; for
after that all is up, the young girls are packed back to their
governesses, dancing-masters, and literary professors. The campaign is
over. That is all for the year. They are not seen again, the poor
things, till after Lent. So mamma took me last year to a dozen large
balls, which were sad and sorrowful for me. He was not there! He didn't
wish to marry! He told it to every one insolently, satirically. He would
never, never, never marry! He told it to me."
"At your mother's request."
"Yes, that is true. I know since that it was at mamma's petition that he
talked that way; she hoped it would prevent my being stubborn in my
craze for him."
"Craze!" exclaimed Aunt Louise.
"Excuse me, Aunt Louise, it is a word of to-day."
"And means--"
"It means a sort of unexplainable, absurd, and extravagant love that
comes without its being possible to know why--in short, Aunt Louise,
exactly the love I have for him."
"Much obliged! But you do not tell everything. You do not say that your
mother desired your marriage with Courtalin--"
"Yes, of course; mamma was quite right. M. de Courtalin has a thousand
sterling merits that you have not--that you will never have; and then M.
de Courtalin had a particularly good point in mamma's eyes: he did not
find me too thin, and he asked for my hand in marriage. One day about
four o'clock (that was the 2d of June last year) mamma came into my room
with an expression on her face I had never seen before. 'My child,' she
said--'my dear child!' She had no need to finish; I had understood. M.
de Courtalin all the evening before, at the Princess de Viran's, had
hovered about me, and the next day his mother had come to declare to
mamma that her son knew of nothing more delightful than my face. I
answered that I knew of nothing less delightful than M. de Courtalin's
face. I added that, besides, I was in no hurry to marry. Mamma tried to
make me hear reason. I was going to let slip an admirable chance. The
Duke of Courtalin was the target of all the ambitious mothers--a great
name, a great position, a great fortune! I should deeply regret some day
to have shown such disdain for advantages like these, etc. And to all
these things, which were so true and sensible, I could find only one
word to say: his name, Gontran, Gontran, Gontran! Gontran or the
convent, and the most rigorous one of all, the Carmel, in sackcloth and
ashes! Oh, Aunt Louise, do look at him! He listens to all this with an
unbearable little air of fatuity."
"You have forbidden me to speak."
"True. Don't speak; but you have deserved a little lesson in modesty and
humility. Good gracious! you think perhaps it was for your merits that I
chose you, insisted on you. You would be far from the mark, my poor
dear. It is, on the contrary, because of your want of merit. Now, as to
M. de Courtalin. Why, there is a man of merit! I had, from morning to
night, M. de Courtalin's merit dinned into my ears, and that was why I
had taken a dislike to him. What I dreaded more than anything for a
husband was what is called a superior man; and mamma went the wrong way
to work to win me over to her candidate when she said to me: 'He is a
very intelligent, very serious, very deep-thinking, and very
distinguished man; he has spent his youth honorably; he has been a model
son, and would make a model husband.' It made me shiver to hear mamma
talk so. I know nothing more awful than people who are always, always
right; who, under all circumstances, give evidence of unfailing good
sense; who crush us with their superiority. With Gontran I am easy,
quite easy. It isn't he who would crush me with his superiority. I do
not know much, Aunt Louise, but my ignorance beside his is learning. He
had great trouble in getting his baccalaureate. He flunked three times."
"Flunked!" exclaimed Aunt Louise.
"It means failed. He taught me the word. All the queer words I use, Aunt
Louise, were taught me by him."
"Come, now--"
"Yes, all. I can see him now, coming to the house one day, and I can
hear him say, 'Flunked again!' That was the third time. Then he went and
took his examination in the country at a little college at Douai; it was
easier, and he passed at last. M. de Courtalin has never been flunked;
he is everything that one can be at his age: bachelor, advocate, lawyer,
and grave, exact, and severe in his language, and dressed--always in a
black frock-coat, with two rows of buttons, always all buttoned--in
short, a man of the past. And what a future before him! Already a member
of the General Council, and very eloquent, very influential, he will be
deputy in three years, and then, when we have a government that people
of our class can recognize, minister, ambassador, and I know not what!
The highest offices wait for him, and all his ambitions will be
legitimate when he has a chance to put his superior talents at the
service of the monarchy. That's one of mamma's phrases. Whereas you, my
poor Gontran--you will never be anything other than a very funny and
very nice old dear, whom I shall lead as I like with my little finger."
"Oh! oh!"
"You will see. Besides, you have seen for eight days."
"The first eight days don't count."
"I will continue, rest assured. I love you, besides. I love you, and do
you know why? It is because you are not a man of the past; you are
distinctly modern, very modern. Look at him, Aunt Louise. Isn't he very
nice, very well turned out, very modern, in fact--I repeat it--in his
little pearl-gray suit. He is devoted to his clothes. He consults for
hours and hours with his tailor, which delights me, for I intend to
consult for hours and hours with my dress-maker. And he will pay the
bills without a tremor, for he will be charmed to see me very stylish
and very much admired. Ah, we shall make the most brilliant and most
giddy little couple! He is modern, I shall be modern, we shall be
modern! After three, four, or five weeks (we do not know exactly)
dedicated to pure love, we shall take flight towards the country, where
one has a good time; and then we shall be talked about, Aunt Louise, we
shall be talked about. And now, where was I in my story? I am sure I do
not know at all."
"Nor I."
"Nor I."
"Ah, I know. Mme. de Courtalin had come to ask my hand for her honorable
son, and when mamma had spoken to me of that I had exclaimed, 'Sooner
the convent!' I do not know exactly what mamma said to Mme. de
Courtalin--at any rate, I was left alone for the time being. There was a
rush to the Grand Prix, and then a general breaking-up. We went to spend
a month at Aix-les-Bains for papa's complaint, and then a fortnight
here, Aunt Louise; and then, do you remember, you received the
confessions of my poor torn heart. Ah! I must say you are the only young
member of the family--you were the only one who did not make a long face
when I spoke of my love for that rogue. Mamma, however, had preached to
you, and you vaunted the advantages of an alliance with Courtalin, but
without conviction. I felt that you were at bottom on my side against
mamma, and it was so easily explained--mamma could not understand me,
whereas you! They think we little girls know nothing, and we know
everything. I knew that mamma had made a worldly marriage, which had,
however, turned out very well; and you, Aunt Louise, had married for
love. You must have battled to get the husband you wished, and you had
him, and you resolutely conquered your happiness. Yes, I knew all that;
I dared even to allude to those things of the past, and those memories
brought a smile to your lips and tears to your eyes. And to-day again,
Aunt Louise, there it is, the smile, and there are the tears."
Marceline interrupted her talk, affectionately threw herself on her Aunt
Louise's neck, and kissed her with all her heart. She wiped away the
tears with kisses, and only the smile remained. Yes, Aunt Louise
remembered that she had had hard work to get as husband a certain
handsome officer of the Royal Guard, who was there present at the scene,
in an old decorated frame, standing up with his helmet on his head in a
martial attitude, leaning on the hilt of his cavalry sabre.
He, too, had been modern, that conqueror of the Trocadero, when he
entered Madrid in 1822 on the staff of the Duke of Angoulême. And she,
too, old Aunt Louise, had been modern, very modern, the day when, from
a window of the Palace of the Tuileries, during a military parade, she
had murmured this phrase in her mother's ear: "Mamma, there is the one I
love."
"Ah, how cowardly we are!" exclaimed Marceline, abruptly, changing her
tone. "Yes, how cowardly we are to love them--those, those dreadful men,
who know so little how to care for us. I say that for Gontran. What was
he doing while I was telling you my sorrows, Aunt Louise? Quite calmly
taking a trip around the world. But let him speak now, let him speak,
especially as I cannot any more. In all my life I have never made so
long a speech. Speak, sir; why were you going round the world?"
"Because your mother, on the morning of the day before you departed for
Aix-les-Bains, had had a very long conversation with me."
"And she had said to you?"
"She had said to me, 'Put a stop to this; marry her or go away, and let
her not hear of you again till her marriage.' And as I had for some time
been debating whether to take a little trip to Japan, I started for
Japan."
"He started for Japan! That goes without saying. You hear him, Aunt
Louise; he admits that this time last year he preferred to expatriate
himself rather than marry me. So there he was in America, in China, and
in Japan. This lasted ten months; from time to time, humbly and timidly,
I asked for news of him. He was very well; his last letter was from
Shanghai, or Sidney, or Java. For me, not a word, not a
remembrance--nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing!"
"I had promised your mother. One day at Yokohama I had bought you a lot
of fascinating little things. The box was done up and addressed to you
when I remembered my promise. I sent all those Japaneseries to your
mother, thinking that you would have your share of the spoil."
"I had nothing at all. The arrival of the box was kept a secret. It
would have been necessary to have pronounced your name before me, and
mamma didn't wish that. On the other hand, there was always one name on
her lips--Courtalin. Still Courtalin, and always Courtalin. He had all
qualities, all virtues. Then he had just lost his aunt in Brittany, and
he had inherited something. It was thought that he would only have a
quarter of the property, and he had had three-quarters. Besides, it was
a country-seat, and all around this seat, an admirable domain, sixteen
or seventeen hundred hectares. I say it to my shame, Aunt Louise, to my
great shame, the thought of giving in came to me; and then, to be
absolutely frank, it rather pleased me to become a duchess; so mamma
made me out a list of all possible husbands for me, and there was no
other duke in the list but M. de Courtalin. There was, of course, the
little Count of Limiers, who would be duke some day. But when? His
father is forty-five and an athlete, and has an iron constitution. So I
was obliged to admit it when I talked it over with mamma in the evening.
To be duchess it was necessary to agree on M. de Courtalin. Mamma,
however, was perfect, and delightfully gentle. She did not press me, nor
treat me harshly, nor torment me; she waited. Only I knew she had said
to Mme. de Nelly: 'It will be accomplished, my dear, before the 20th of
June. It must be.' Papa was obliged to return to Aix for his complaint.
The 20th of June was the date for his departure. I no longer said, 'No,
no, no!' with that savage energy of the year before. You see, Gontran, I
open my whole heart to you; you will have, I hope, soon the same courage
and sincerity."
"You may be sure of it."
"I was waiting, however--I was waiting for his return. I wished to have
with him a very serious conversation. It is quite true that I felt like
fainting with fear at the mere thought of that explanation; but I was
none the less resolved to speak, and I would speak. It seemed to me
impossible that he had not thought of me sometimes out there in China
and Cochin China. We had always loved each other (till the unhappy day
on which I had become marriageable) with a tender and faithful
affection! I knew that he would arrive in Paris during the night of the
2d or 3d of April. Very certainly the day after he would come and see
us. And so, in fact, towards two o'clock he came. Mamma hadn't finished
dressing; I was alone. I ran to him. 'Ah, how glad I am to see you!' and
I kissed him with effusion. Then he, very much moved, yes, very much
moved, kissed me, and began to say to me such nice and pretty things
that I felt my heart melting. Ah, if mamma hadn't come for five
minutes--I would only have asked for five minutes!--and how quickly it
would have turned into love-making our little explanation!"
"Yes, that is true. The impulse that threw you into my arms was so
sincere. Ah, very certainly it was that day, at that moment, that I
began to love you. And then I looked at you. You were no longer the
same. There was such great and happy change."
"He does not dare say it, Aunt Louise, but I will say it: I had become
fatter. Ah, when I think that I might be Duchess of Courtalin if I had
remained thin. Those men! Those men! What wretches! But mamma came in,
then papa, and then my brother George. No explanation possible! There
they all were engaged in an odious conversation on the comparative
merits of the English and French boats--the English ones are faster, the
food on the French ones is better, etc. It was charming! At the end of
an hour Gontran went away, but not without giving me a very tender and
eloquent hand-shake. I could wish nothing more speaking than that
hand-shake. But mamma, who was observing us attentively, had clearly
seen our two hands, after having found a way to say very pleasant
things, had had a great deal of trouble in separating. I expected, of
course, to see him the next day. Did you come?"
"No."
"And the day after that?"
"No, nor then."
"At last, after three days, mamma took me to the races at the Bois de
Boulogne. We arrived, and there at once, two steps from me, I saw him.
But no, it was no longer he; frigid greeting, frigid good-day, frigid
hand-shake, frigid words, and very few of them--scarcely a few
sentences, awkward and embarrassed. Then he was lost in the crowd, and
that was all. He did not appear again. I was dumfounded, overcome,
crushed."
"But it was your mother who--"
"Yes, I know now; but I did not know that day. Yes, it was mamma. Oh,
must I not love mamma to have forgiven her that?"
"She had come to me very early in the morning the day after the very
eloquent hand-shake and there, in tears--yes, literally in tears (she
was sobbing)--she had appealed to my sense of honor, of delicacy, of
integrity. 'You both had,' she said to me, 'yesterday, on seeing each
other again after a long absence, a little spasm of emotion. That is all
right; but you must stop there, and not prolong this foolishness,' And,
just as I was going to protest: 'Oh yes; foolishness!' 'Remember,
Marceline's happiness is at stake. You have no right to compromise her.
You come back from China all at once, and your abrupt return will break
off more sensible, more studied arrangements. M. de Courtalin is
thirty-four; he is a man of great knowledge and wisdom. However, I know
that that is only a secondary consideration; but love passes away, and
money remains, and M. de Courtalin is richer, very much richer, than
you. With him Marceline will have quite a grand position. Whereas you,
you know how I love you, and I know how worthy you are of being loved.
You are charming, charming, charming.' It was your mother who spoke
thus."
"I know; I know."
"'Yes, charming; but when I have said that, I have said all. So I will
ask you this question, and I expect from you a faithful answer: Have you
those solid qualities which alone can make a husband, a true husband?
Marceline is a little light-headed, a little frivolous, a little
coquettish.' It is always your mother who is speaking."
"I know; I know."
"I was embarrassed, Aunt Louise; it seemed to me that that speech was
not without reason. I hadn't a very high idea of myself as a husband,
and even now I ask myself--"
"Don't ask yourself anything. Be an affectionate husband, and you will
have all the virtues. Nothing simpler, as you see. You can go on."
"Well, your mother was so skilfully persuasive that the day after, at
the races, I gave that cold greeting."
"And so I, that same day, on entering the house, threw myself into
mamma's arms, exclaiming, 'Yes, I am willing to marry M. de Courtalin!'
Ah, how many times between that day and the 16th of May I threw myself
into mamma's arms! I did nothing else. Mamma got used to it, and never
saw me appear without mechanically opening her arms. 'Yes, I am
willing,' and sometimes, 'No, I am not.' But the 'No, I am nots' became
fewer and fewer. M. de Courtalin, besides, was perfect; a model of tact,
of gentleness, and of resignation. He waited, always in his black
frock-coat, always buttoned, with an inexhaustible patience. Mamma was,
in short, pledged to Mme. de Courtalin, and I felt the circle tighten
round me. The papers announced, in a covert but transparent way, that
there was question of an alliance between two families of the Faubourg
Saint-Germain, and they made it pretty clear that it concerned two
important families. I already received vague congratulations, and I
dared respond only by vague denials. The morning of the famous 17th of
May mamma had said to me, 'Come, my child, don't make a martyr of that
poor boy. Since it is to be "yes," for it will be "yes," you know
yourself, say "yes" at once.' I had obtained only a miserable respite of
twenty-four hours; and things were thus when, still on the 17th of May,
mamma and I arrived, a little late (after eleven), at Mme. de
Vernieux's, who was giving a ball, a very large ball. I went in, and I
had at once the feeling that I must be looking extremely well that
evening. They formed into a little hedge along my way, and I heard a
little 'oh!' of surprise, and a big 'ah!' of admiration which went
straight to my heart. I had had already in society certain successes,
but never any as marked as that one. M. de Courtalin came towards me. He
wished to engage me for all the waltzes, for all the quadrilles, for the
entire evening, for the night, for life. I answered him: 'Later,
presently, we will see. I feel a little tired.' The fact was I hadn't
the heart to dance. Mamma and I took our seats. A waltz began. Mamma
scolded softly: 'Dance with him, my child, I beg.' I didn't listen to
her. I was abstractedly looking around the room when suddenly I saw in a
corner two eyes fixed, fastened, pinioned on me--two eyes that I well
knew, but that I had some difficulty in recognizing, for they were
tremendously enlarged by a sort of stupor."
"Say by overwhelming admiration."
"As you please But it is here, Aunt Louise, that my interrogation will
begin. Why and how were you there? Where had you dined, Gontran?"
"At the club."
"And what did you intend to do after dinner? Come to Mme. de
Vernieux's?"
"No; Robert d'Aigremont and I had meant to go to the Bouffes-Parisiens."
"You did not go? Why?"
"We had telephoned from the club to have a box; all were sold--"
"So you said to Robert--"
"I said to Robert, 'Let's play bezique;' and I was beaten by one of
those streaks of bad luck--34,000 points in a dozen games--so thoroughly
that towards half-past ten I thought that bezique had lasted long
enough--"
"And so--"
"And so--"
"So Robert wished to bring you to Mme. de Vernieux's. And you didn't
want to go! If you hadn't come, however, and if there had been a box at
the Bouffes-Parisiens, or if you had won at bezique, my marriage with M.
de Courtalin would have been publicly announced the next day."
"Yes, but I came; and there I was in the corner looking at you, looking
at you, looking at you. It was you, and yet not you--"
"I, immediately on seeing the way you were looking at me, understood
that something extraordinary was going to happen. Your eyes shone,
burned, blazed!"
"Because I had discovered that you were simply the prettiest woman of
the ball, where all the prettiest women of Paris were. Yes, the
prettiest, and such shoulders, such shoulders!"
"Ripe! in fact, I was ripe!"
"My head was turned at once. I saw Courtalin manoeuvring and trying to
get near you. I understood that there was not a moment to be lost. To
reach there ahead of Courtalin I threw myself intrepidly into the midst
of the room, among the waltzers, pushing and being pushed. I forged a
passage and tore into rags one of the lace flounces of Mme. de
Lornans--she hasn't yet forgiven me. But I got there--I got there before
Courtalin, and threw myself on you, and took you round your waist (I can
still hear your little cry), and I dragged you off."
"Mamma had scarcely time to scream 'Marceline, Marceline!' when I was
there no more. He had lifted me off, and carried me away; and we were
waltzing wildly, furiously!--oh, what a waltz!--and he was saying to me:
'I love you! I adore you! You are grace and beauty itself! There is only
one pretty woman here--you; and it is I who will be your husband. I, do
you hear? I, and not another!' And I, quite suffocated with surprise,
pleasure, and emotion, allowed myself to be nearly carried by him, but I
kept begging him to speak lower. 'Anything you wish; yes, I will be your
wife; but take care--you will be heard--you will be heard.'"
"That is what I wished; and I continued, 'I love you! I adore you!'"
"Then I, absolutely breathless: 'Not so fast. I pray, not so fast; I
shall fall. I assure you everything is going round, everything is going
round. Let us stop.' 'No, no; don't let's stop. Keep on still. If we
stop your mother will separate us, and I have still so many things to
say to you--so many things, so many things. Swear to me that you will be
my wife.' 'Yes, I swear it; but enough, enough--' I was smothering. He
heard nothing. He was going, going like a madman. We had become a
hurricane, a whirlwind, a cyclone. We caused surprise and fright. No one
danced any more, but looked at us. And he held me so close, and his face
was so near my face, his lips so near my lips, that all at once I felt
myself giving way. I slipped, and let myself into his arms. A cloud
passed before my eyes; I could not speak nor think; then blankness.
Everything had disappeared before me in a vertigo not too disagreeable,
I must say. I had fainted, absolutely fainted."
"The next day our marriage was decided, perfectly decided. Our waltz had
caused scandal. That was just what I wanted."
"There, Aunt Louise, is the history of our marriage, and I want to-day
to draw this conclusion: it is that I was the first to begin to love,
and I shall have, consequently, one day, when it pleases me, the right
to stop the first."
"Ah, no, indeed; tell her, Aunt Louise, that she will never have that
right--"
A new quarrel threatened to break out.
"This, my children," said the old aunt, "is all I have to say: she did,
in truth, start the first to love; but it seems to me, Gontran, that you
started all at once at such a great pace that you must have caught up
with her."
"Passed her, Aunt Louise."
"Oh no!" exclaimed Marceline.
"Oh yes--"
"Oh no--"
"Well," continued Aunt Louise, "try never to have any other quarrels
than that one. Try to walk always in life step by step, side by side,
and heart to heart. I have seen many inventions since I was born, and
the world is no longer what it was then. But there is one thing to which
inventions have made no difference, and never will. That thing you have;
keep it. It is love! Love each other, children, as strongly and as long
as possible."
And Aunt Louise wept another tear, and smiled on looking at the portrait
of the officer of the Royal Guard.