"Very well, I shall not tell you. I gave my word of honor not to mention
any names, if the offer was rejected."
Marcel went to his uncle; he had a suspicion of the truth, but he had
not dared suggest it to Madame d'Estrelle, thinking justly that she
would reproach him for having brought her into relations with an insane
old man. Moreover, he knew nothing of his uncle's fortune beyond the two
millions which he admitted, and that figure, which had been often
repeated to Julie, and so had prevented her from suspecting the truth,
went far to destroy Marcel's suspicions.
"Well, my little uncle," he said abruptly as soon as he entered the room
"so you have five millions, have you?"
"Why not thirty?" retorted the old man with a shrug; "have you gone
mad?"
Marcel worried him with questions to no purpose; the uncle was
inscrutable. Moreover, a most momentous event had come to pass on his
domain, and his thoughts were completely diverted from his dreams of
marriage. The mysterious lily, at which he had so often gazed, which he
had watched and nurtured and watered so carefully, in the hope of being
able to give it his name, had unexpectedly, during those few days of
forgetfulness and neglect, put forth a sturdy shoot, which was already
laden with swelling buds; indeed, one of the buds had partly opened,
displaying a corolla soft as satin, of an incomparable sheeny white,
with bright red stripes. That exotic plant surpassed in oddity and in
beauty all its congeners, and the frantic horticulturist, endowed with
new life and almost consoled for his matrimonial mishap, exclaimed again
and again, as he paced his hothouse floor in intense excitement, pausing
at intervals to gloat over the budding of his plant:
"There it is! there it is! my reputation is made. That shall be the
_Antonia Thierrii_, and all the collectors in Europe may burst with rage
if they choose."
"Well, well!" said Marcel to himself, "is it the _Antonia_ or the
countess that my uncle is in love with?"
III
Marcel, seeing that his uncle's vanity as a horticulturist had resumed
the upper hand, and thinking that he might exploit his delight to the
advantage of his aunt and cousin, lavished the most fulsome praise on
the future Antonia.
"You intend, of course, to present it to the Royal Garden. The learned
professors will hold you in the greatest esteem!"
"Oh! as to that, not much!" replied Monsieur Antoine; "they can look at
it to their heart's content, describe it in their fine language,
_specificize_ it as they say; but it's the only specimen of its kind,
and I won't part with it until I have a lot of bulbs."
"But what if it dies without offspring?"
"Why, then my name will live in the catalogues!"
"That isn't enough! If I were in your place I would have it painted, in
case of accident."
"How painted? do you mean to say that they paint flowers now? Ah! I
understand, you mean that I ought to have a portrait made of it? I have
thought of that for some of my other rare plants; but I was on bad terms
with my brother, and when I went to other painters I was never satisfied
with their crazy daubing. I paid big prices and then slashed the canvas
or tore the paper."
"And you have never thought of Julien?"
"Bah! Julien! an apprentice!"
"Have you ever seen any of his work?"
"No, nothing, faith!"
"Do you want me to bring----"
"No, nothing, I tell you. We are not on good terms."
"Yes you are! He has always called on you on the first of January every
year, and you have never had any fault to find with his manner toward
you."
"True, he is well brought up, he isn't stupid or bad-looking; but since
I refused to advance him the money to redeem the house at Sèvres----"
"Julien has never uttered a word of blame or dissatisfaction, I give you
my word of honor."
"All that doesn't prove that he has the necessary talent!"
"Look! a small specimen tells the story as well as a large one. Take
your magnifying glass and look at this."
Marcel took from his pocket a pretty little tortoise-shell snuff-box, on
the lid of which was a bouquet painted in miniature by Julien. Although
it was not in his regular line of work, he had made a microscopic
reproduction of one of his large canvases to decorate this gift for
Marcel, and it was in truth a little _chef-d'œuvre._
Uncle Antoine did not know enough about painting to appreciate its
artistic qualities; but he knew the structure of every detail of a plant
as well as the most accomplished botanist, and, armed with his
magnifying glass, if he could not count the stamens of each flower and
the veins of each leaf, he could at all events assure himself that, in
the sacrifices which the artist had made in favor of the general effect,
there was involved no error, no caprice of the imagination, no offence,
however slight, against the unchangeable laws of creation.
He looked a long while, then ingenuously inquired if Julien was capable
of painting flowers as large as life, and upon Marcel's replying in the
affirmative he decided that Julien should paint the portrait of the
_Antonia Thierrii_, but that it must be done under his eyes, so that he
could see to it that it was absolutely exact in the smallest details.
"I know what these painters are!" he said; "they always want to invent,
to improve on the original. They talk to you about _style_ and _light_
and _effect!_ Oh! I remember all their foolish words! If Julien chooses
to obey me, between us we may perhaps succeed in producing something
fine! Go and tell him, so that he will be ready to come and pass an hour
here the day after to-morrow; it will be in full flower then."
Marcel went to consult Julien, then returned and told his uncle that he
would require at least two days to study his model, and that he must let
him work at it without making any suggestions until he should ask for
them, when he would comply with them if they seemed judicious to him.
"He is very proud!" said the uncle angrily. "Here he is, raising
objections already, like his father! Does he think that I ask him to do
this as a favor? I intend to pay him, and to pay him as well as any
other man would. What is a day of any gentleman's work worth?"
"He doesn't want to be paid. If you are satisfied with what he does, he
will ask you for your custom."
"I know what that means; he will ask me----"
"Nothing. You can settle everything yourself. We know that you are
generous with people you don't hate, and you won't hate Julien when you
know him better."
"Very well, let him come at once; let him begin."
"No, he has some work that is urgent; he will give you a few hours
to-morrow for a beginning."
On the following day Julien began to study the plant, and made several
sketches of it, taking them from different points of view. Monsieur
Antoine, faithful to the conditions exacted, did not see these sketches
until they were submitted to him. He was more pleased with them than he
chose to say. That conscientious method of studying the structure and
bearing of the plant surprised and gratified him. Julien said little,
but kept his eyes constantly on his model and seemed to love it
passionately. The horticulturist began to feel some esteem for him, and
as Madame Thierry had never mentioned to her son her brother-in-law's
strange conduct toward her, as nothing in the young man's face or
manners betrayed the slightest feeling of aversion, Antoine, who had the
greater longing to become attached to some one as he became more
selfish, conceived a latent, and if we may say so, an underground sort
of friendship for him.
On the second day Julien began to paint; thereupon the uncle ceased to
understand what he was doing and began to be uneasy. It was much worse
when Julien informed him that he must finish the work in his studio,
where the light was arranged as he wanted it, and where he had a
multitude of little things which he could not carry back and forth
without forgetting some of them. It was some distance from the pavilion
to the hôtel de Melcy, and he would have no time to waste going to and
fro the next day, for it was most essential to seize on the wing the
plant's expression when it was in full bloom.
But to transport the model was to put it in peril, to hasten its
blooming, weaken its stalk, deaden its lustre! Uncle Antoine, finding
the artist immovable, determined to carry the priceless _Antonia_ to the
studio himself, with the greatest possible care, even at the risk of
meeting Madame Thierry and being obliged to salute her.
In forcing this unpleasant sacrifice upon Uncle Antoine, Julien was not
governed by the petty crotchets of a finical artist. He was following
Marcel's advice, who was bent upon bringing about some sort of
reconciliation between the relations, and who, having abandoned all hope
of inducing Madame Thierry to make the slightest advance, had considered
it necessary to surprise her by an unexpected meeting with her enemy.
Madame Thierry, whom we have represented to you as perfect in every
respect, and who was as perfect as a woman can be, had nevertheless one
little failing. Although she was not coquettish, although she did not
pretend or believe herself to be still young, she had never said to
herself: "I am an old woman."--What woman in her day was more sensible
or more clear-sighted? Her youth had burst into flower among madrigals
and gallant speech and manners. She had been so pretty, and she was so
well preserved! Her husband, although he ruined her by his recklessness,
had been in love with her to his last day, and it really seemed as if
that old couple were destined to reproduce the legend of Philemon and
Baucis. By dint of being told that she was still charming, which was
perfectly true considering her age, good Madame Thierry still thought
and felt herself to be all a woman, and after thirty-five years she had
not forgotten how deeply the ex-armorer's proposal had wounded her pride
and her self-esteem. That brutal man, who had had the audacity to say to
her: "I am here, I am rich, you may as well love me instead of my
brother," had caused her the only real mortification connected with what
society in those days called "her fault." Later, her charm and loyalty
had caused her husband's admirers to seek her society. She was able to
hold her head erect, to triumph over prejudice, to occupy a place apart,
an exceptional and most desirable place in public opinion. She was happy
therefore except for a single wound, still bleeding, in the depths of
her heart. It seemed to her that her honor had been sullied once in her
life, by Monsieur Antoine's offers and aspirations.
Marcel was unable to penetrate this labyrinth of feminine refinements.
He believed that time had wiped out the last trace of that absurd
episode, and that Madame Thierry told the truth when she declared that
she was ready to forgive everything in order to obtain for Julien his
wealthy kinsman's favor.
Julien was not the man to covet Uncle Antoine's wealth. He had never
said to himself that by fawning upon him he might make sure of a goodly
share of his inheritance. For a long time he had fought against the idea
of asking him for a slight service; but the longing to recover for his
mother, by hard work, the house in which she had been so happy, had
overcome his pride. Determined to devote his whole life, if necessary,
to the task of paying his debt, he no longer blushed at the measures
which Marcel took to induce Antoine to advance the necessary funds.
But, when it was time for his uncle to appear, Julien had some scruples
about deceiving his mother. He was afraid that the surprise would be too
great, and he tried to prepare her for the visit he expected. Madame
Thierry made the best of it; but she had hardly saluted Monsieur Antoine
when she went up to her room on the first pretext that occurred to her,
and there remained, unable to make up her mind to face that antipathetic
individual. Antoine, who had not seen her for thirty years or more, did
not recognize her at once, and had not the presence of mind to
apologize. He had walked across his grounds, which had a servants' gate
opening on Rue de Babylone, near the pavilion. As he would trust no one
but himself to touch his beplumed lily, he had brought it in with his
own hands. He placed it with his own hands on the table in the little
studio. He removed with his own hands the enormous horn of white paper
which protected it; and when he saw that the artist was fairly at work,
he took a newspaper which Madame d'Estrelle sent to Madame Thierry every
morning, and dozed in a corner of the studio.
Julien expected Marcel, who had promised to attempt to effect the
reconciliation which he had planned; but Marcel was detained by
unexpected business and did not appear. Madame Thierry did not come
down. Julien felt that he could not break the ice unassisted by his
cousin; so he did not speak, but worked on, did his best, and thought of
Julie.
Uncle Antoine slept with one eye open. He felt agitated, excited,
constrained, in the house of the woman he hated, and in sight of the
hôtel d'Estrelle, where his new inamorata lived. He rose, walked back
and forth in his squeaking shoes, sat down again, and, forgetting his
lily for a moment, tried to talk with Julien.
"Do you have much work?" he asked.
"A good deal."
"And people pay you well?"
"Well enough. I have no reason to complain."
"How much do you earn a day?"
"About thirty francs, taking one day with another," said Julien, with a
smile.
"That's not very much; but your father at your age didn't earn so much
as that, and you will increase your prices from year to year, I
suppose?"
"I hope so and expect so."
"You lead a temperate and regular life, so I am told?"
"I am forced to do so, uncle."
"You don't go into society, I imagine?"
"I have no time for that."
"But you know some people of quality?"
"Those who were friends of my father have not forgotten me."
"Do you sometimes pay visits?"
"Rarely, and only when it is necessary."
"Do you know the Baronne d'Ancourt?"
"I know her name, nothing more."
"Isn't she a friend of Madame d'Estrelle?"
"I have no idea."
"But you know Madame d'Estrelle?"
"No, uncle."
"You have never seen her?"
"Never."
Julien told this lie with resolution. It seemed to him that everybody
was trying to pry into his secret, and he had determined to conceal it
more securely with a cloak of savage distrust.
"That's funny," continued Uncle Antoine, who may have conceived some
suspicions of his own in order to remain true to his habit of suspecting
everybody. "Your mother passes hours and days in her garden, even in her
salon, they say, and you----"
"I am not my mother."
"You mean that you are not noble?"
"I mean that I am not old enough to call on a person who receives only
older people."
"Perhaps you regret that you are too young, eh?"
"I am very glad that I am young, I assure you!" replied Julien, laughing
at his uncle's peculiar reflections.
The uncle, foiled in his attack, began to pace the floor again with a
jerky, nerve-wearing step; then he said to Julien:
"Will it take you much longer?"
"Two or three hours."
"May I look?"
"If you choose."
"Oho! that's not bad; that begins to look like something. But you're
painting the whole background; where will you put the plant's name? I
want it in big gold letters."
"Then I won't put it anywhere. It would spoil my effect."
"Ah! upon my word! But I will have my name!"
"You can have it put in large black letters on a raised plate at the top
or bottom of the gilt frame."
"Good! that's a good idea! If you give me a masterpiece, I'll invite you
to the ceremony of baptism."
"Pshaw! a ceremony?"
"Oh! yes, the gentlemen from the Royal Garden are coming to breakfast
with me to-morrow. I have invited them. I expect they'll come, and, as
it tires me to sit in one place with folded arms, I'll just go home and
see if everything is going on all right, for I mean to have a sort of
party. Take good care of my lily, don't let anyone disturb you, work
without stopping. I will come back in an hour."
And as each touch of the brush, wielded by Julien with an enthusiastic
and unerring hand, seemed to make the marvellous plant actually live on
the canvas, the uncle was profoundly impressed, smiled, and softened so
far as to pat the young man's shoulder, saying:
"Courage, my boy, courage! Satisfy me, and perhaps you won't be sorry."
He went out, but, instead of returning to his own house, he bent his
steps mechanically in the direction of the hôtel d'Estrelle. A confused
multitude of ideas, alluring, disturbing, audacious, caused a mad whirl
in that poor brain, at once enfeebled and excited by isolation, wealth,
ennui and vanity.
"I made a mistake," he said to himself, "in entrusting my proposal to
that rattle-pated baroness. She went about it the wrong way; she didn't
even mention my name! She said that I was an old _roturier_--that was
all; and the little countess never guessed that she was referring to a
well-preserved man, whom she herself praised for his excellent health
and fine appearance; a man she knows to be generous and big-hearted, and
whose talents as an amateur gardener and producer of varieties are not
to be despised. I propose to straighten matters out. I am going to
declare myself, and find out whether I am to love her or hate her."
He resolutely entered the house, and asked for an interview with the
countess on business. She hesitated a little about receiving him; she
knew that he was queer and she considered him a sort of maniac. She
would have liked Marcel to be present at the interview; but she knew her
old neighbor's sensitiveness, and she was afraid that she might impair
Madame Thierry's interests by refusing to see him. So she bade her
servant show him in. She was alone, but she thought that it would be the
most absurd prudery to take alarm at a tête-à-tête with an old man
whose rigid morals were well-known.
The rich man arrived prepared for a struggle; he imagined that he would
have to fight to obtain this tête-à-tête. When he found that it was
accorded him with no other obstacle than about two minutes of waiting,
when he saw the slightly reserved but always courteous and affable
greeting of his fair neighbor, his courage failed him. Like all those
who have no opportunity to exchange their thoughts and no one to
contradict them, he was as bold as any man could be in his projects; it
was that boldness which had made him rich, and he had full confidence in
it; but as he had never acted except behind the scenes, he was as
incapable of taking a step in his own person on the stage of the world
and of speaking to a lady, as he would have been of commanding a ship
and negotiating with the Algonquin Indians. He turned pale, stammered,
replaced his hat on his head, and fell into such dire confusion that
Madame d'Estrelle, surprised and disturbed, was forced to come to his
assistance by broaching the subject which, in her mind, was the motive
of his visit.
"So we seem to be treading on delicate ground, my dear neighbor," she
said to him in an amiable tone, "with respect to that wretched pavilion,
which, I fondly hoped, was to establish a good understanding between us
and put us on a neighborly footing. Do you know that I consider you
unreasonable and that I am inclined to scold you?"
"I am mad, everyone knows that," rejoined Antoine sulkily. "If people
keep on telling me so, they will end by making me believe it!"
"I ask nothing better than to be proved in the wrong," replied Julie;
"but give me some good reason for accepting the gift you offer. I defy
you to do it."
"You defy me? Then you wish me to speak? The reason is plain enough. I
am interested in you."
"You are very kind!" said Julie, with an imperceptible smile of irony;
"but----"
"But it's a fact, madame la comtesse, that you are made to make people
think about you--and I was thinking about you, deuce take me! I said to
myself: 'It's a pity that a person so--a lady who--in fact, a good woman
should be hunted by bailiffs. I am only a vulgar fellow, but I have an
idea that I'm not such a curmudgeon as the fine gentlemen and ladies of
her family.'--That is why I said what I said; and you took offence at
it, which shows that you look down on me."
"Oh! not that, no indeed!" cried the countess. "Look down on you because
you wanted to do a kind deed? No, a hundred times, no! You know that
that is impossible!"
"Then why refuse?"
"Listen, Monsieur Thierry; will you give me your word as a man of honor
that you fully understand me, that you are quite sure of the sincerity
and unselfishness of my behavior toward you?"
"Yes, madame, I give you my word of honor. If that wasn't so, _mordié!_
do you suppose I would have come to see you again?"
"Very well, then I accept," said Julie, offering him her hand; "but on
one condition, and that is that you give me back your good will."
Old Antoine lost his head when he felt that soft little hand in his hard
dry one. He had a sort of dizzy feeling, and, in his uncertainty what to
do with that hand, which he thought that he ought not to kiss, and which
he dared not press, he let it fall again, and stammered out his thanks
incoherently, but with something like warmth.
"Since you treat me as if you were my debtor," continued Madame
d'Estrelle, "I warn you that I shall be very exacting. As a matter of
fact, I need only twenty thousand francs for the moment. Authorize me to
offer the other twenty thousand to Madame Thierry as from you."
"Oh! that isn't possible!" said Antoine angrily. "She will
refuse.--There's a person who detests me! I have just been to call on
her. She turned tail and ran up into her garret!"
"Is it that you have wronged her in some way then, neighbor?"
"Never! If she chooses to think otherwise--But let her say what she
will, I am an honorable man."
"She has never said that you weren't."
"Has she never spoken to you about me? Come, on _your_ word of honor?"
"On my honor, never!"
"In that case--look you! tell her to respect me as she ought, and don't
talk about giving her money that belongs to you; for, deuce take me! if
you choose to think well of me and not blush at my friendship, I'll toss
her a pretty little present! I'll redeem her house at Sèvres. What
would you say to that, eh?"
"I should say, my dear neighbor," exclaimed Madame d'Estrelle, deeply
touched, "that you are the best of men!"
"The best, honor bright?" said the rich man, flattered to the last
degree in his pride; "the best, you say?"
"Yes, the best rich man whom I know."
"Then it's as good as done! Will you come to breakfast at my house
to-morrow with some scientific men, very famous men of intellect, and
attend a christening? Will you be godmother and stand up with me?"
"Yes, at what hour?"
"Twelve o'clock."
"I will come! but I must come with some one, as you are to have men
there who do not know me. I will come with----"
"With my sister-in-law; I see what you are coming at!"
"Do you forbid me?"
"Forbid you? Do you know that you talk as if I were your master?" he
rejoined, with a fatuous, mysterious air.
"As if you were my father," replied Julie artlessly.
An old man of impure morals would have been wounded by that remark; but
Antoine was virtuous in his madness, and we have no hesitation in
asserting that he was not in love with Julie. The countess alone, not
the woman, was the object of his passion. It mattered little to him
whether she was his adopted daughter or his wife. Provided that he could
show her to his grave and learned guests on the morrow, to Marcel, to
Julien, to Madame Thierry above all, and to all his gardeners, leaning
on his arm or seated at his table, and manifesting a sort of filial
affection for him, undisturbed by any thought of what people might say,
it seemed to him that he should be perfectly happy.
"And if I am not satisfied yet," he mused, speaking to himself of
himself with boundless affection, "I shall be in time to tame her and
lead her on to marriage, to sacrifice her title for the name of Thierry
senior, which will then be quite as illustrious as that of my brother,
Thierry the painter!--Since you are so _polite_," he said to Julie, "I
will not be outdone. I will do all that you want me to do. For instance,
be kind enough to invite Madame André Thierry in my name, and say to
her that if you should fail to keep your appointment to-morrow through
her fault, I will never forgive her as long as I live."
"I will answer for her, neighbor. Until to-morrow, and have no fear!"
"Would it trouble you to say _my friend_?" said Antoine, whose tongue
was loosened under the influence of internal well-being.
"It would not trouble me at all," replied Julie, laughingly; "I will
call you that to-morrow, if you keep your word."
"You will call me that--in public?"
"In public, with all my heart."
The old man took his leave, staggering like a drunken man. In the street
he muttered to himself, with gleaming eyes and vehement gestures. The
people he met took him for an escaped lunatic.
He followed the wall of the Estrelle garden, instinctively turning to
see if Julien was still working and if his lily was uninjured. Suddenly
it occurred to him that Madame d'Ancourt might ruin everything if she
should reveal to Madame d'Estrelle the name of the suitor she had
described. Julie evidently had no suspicion; evidently she saw no
ulterior purpose behind her old neighbor's attachment. There was no
reason why she should not come around gradually to the point of
accepting him for a husband as she had more experience of his
munificence; but he had undertaken to progress too rapidly; he had come
within an ace of spoiling everything. As the baroness was not opposed to
his success, he must hasten to her before thinking of anything else,
tell her how matters had progressed and enjoin silence upon her. He
jumped into an empty cab which happened to pass, and ordered the cabman
to take him to the hôtel d'Ancourt.
Julie was profoundly moved; like every generous heart which has set on
foot and carried through a good action, she was happy in absolute
forgetfulness of self. That forgetfulness of self was so complete that
she threw over her shoulders a light cape of violet silk and ran to the
pavilion, impatient to announce the great news to Madame André, and to
make her promise to chaperone her at the banquet at the hôtel de Melcy.
She was thinking no more of Julien than if he had never existed, or, if
she did think of him, she had no conception of the danger she ran in
meeting him. That danger, of the gravity of which she was entirely
ignorant, seemed to her a trifle in comparison with the great event
which led her to go to his mother. Moreover, she was alone. No one in
her salon, no one in the garden. Would the roses be scandalized by her
action, would the nightingales cry out over the walls that Madame
d'Estrelle was going into a house where there might be a young man whom
she had never seen?
At that moment Julien had no leisure to watch for Julie's approach. He
must paint rapidly and without distraction. The lily could not promise
not to fade and curl at the edges before the last stroke of the brush.
Madame Thierry was in her room with Marcel, who, after exchanging a few
words with Julien, was attempting to confess and convince his aunt by
lecturing her in private, as the subject of his homily had thus far been
kept from the young artist, and it was thought best to keep him in
ignorance of it.
Madame d'Estrelle tapped gently at the door of the pavilion. A huge dray
laden with stone was passing along the street at that moment. The
creaking of the wheels, the shouts of the drayman and the cracking of
his whip drowned the faint sound of her knocking. Being most anxious to
see Madame Thierry before she was informed of what had happened, and
offended by some gruff message from the eccentric Antoine, Madame
d'Estrelle resolutely opened the outer door, then a second one, and
found herself in Julien's studio, face to face with him; for his model
was placed in the light that shone through the window upon that door,
and Julie appeared to the artist in a flood of radiance, as if she had
come to him in a sunbeam.
He was so unprepared for that vision that he nearly fell senseless. All
his blood rushed to his heart and his face turned whiter than Monsieur
Antoine's lily. He could neither speak nor bow; he stood rooted to the
floor, palette in hand, with staring eyes and as if actually turned to
stone.
What analogous process was taking place in the lovely countess's heart
and senses? It is certain that at the sight of that wonderfully
beautiful young man, of a type of beauty wherein nobility of outline was
surpassed only by intelligence of expression, she had a sort of
instinctive feeling of respect; for he was not really a stranger to her.
She knew the whole story of his upright, noble labor, his persistence in
working earnestly and regularly, his filial love, his generous
aspirations, the esteem and affection which he deserved, and which
nobody who knew him could deny him. It may be that she had sometimes
been curious to see him, but if so she had forbidden herself to give way
to curiosity, whether because it seemed childish to her, or because she
had a vague presentiment of some danger to herself.
Let us not attempt to dissect her feelings farther. She was apparently
all ready for the invasion of the sentiment which was to decide her
fate. She received a terrible shock; the confusion which paralyzed
Julien took complete possession of her, and for a moment she was as
silent and motionless as he.
If anyone had seen that beautiful couple, fashioned by the hands of God,
in some region inaccessible to social prejudices, coming together under
the natural and awe-inspiring conditions of the all-governing logic, he
would have said unhesitatingly that logic, born of God, had made
that magnificent man for that fascinating woman, and that sensible,
genuine woman for that high-spirited and earnest man. All was charm and
gentleness in Julie's grace; all was passion and unselfishness in
Julien's beauty. As at last their glances met in the bright radiance of
that May sun, redolent with the fragrance of nature's new light, each
one uttered mentally, as it were an outcry of irresistible love, the
names which chance had given them--_Julie, Julien_--as if they were
destined to have but one name between them.
Thus it required a mighty effort of will for them to remember the
distance that separated them socially.
"Of course, it is the young painter," thought Julie; "I fancied for a
moment that I saw a demi-god."
"Alas!" said Julien to himself, "it is the _grande dame_; I fancied for
a moment that I saw the half of myself."
She bowed first, and asked him if he were Monsieur Julien Thierry. He
bowed to the ground as he said with a hypocritical expression of doubt:
"Madame la Comtesse d'Estrelle?"
What trifling! as if they had any occasion to ask questions before
taking possession of each other.
"Is madame your mother out?"
"No, madame, I will call her."
And he did not stir; his feet seemed to be nailed to the floor.
"She is with my cousin Marcel Thierry," he added; "shall I tell him to
come down and receive his orders?"
"Do not call anybody. I will go up if you will show me the way. But
stay," she added, seeing that Julien was incapable of moving. "Perhaps
it will be well to notify madame your mother. I did not see her
yesterday; perhaps she is not well?"
"She is a little indisposed," said Julien.
"Then--yes, you must prepare her for a--pleasant surprise, thank God!
which might, however, give her too great a shock. Tell her gently that I
bring great and good news from Monsieur Antoine Thierry in relation to
the house at Sèvres."
Julien could not nor did not think that he should resist the desire to
thank Madame d'Estrelle. As he had recovered his presence of mind to
some extent, he blessed her for what she was doing for his mother, in
terms so overflowing with emotion and delicacy of sentiment, that she
was profoundly touched, but not surprised. With such a nature as his and
such an irresistible face Julien could not express himself otherwise.
Thereupon the ice was broken and all the rigid rules of etiquette were
forgotten, as if distrust would have been a mutual insult; and they
talked for a moment with an extraordinary absence of constraint.
"I am overjoyed to have been of assistance to your mother," said Julie,
"as you must know. She cannot have failed to tell you how dearly I love
her!"
"You are quite right to love her, you will never repent it. Her heart is
worthy of yours."
"I should be very glad if I could say that my heart is worthy of her
confidence. Oh! she has told me about you! You adore her, I know; and
God will bless you for that boundless filial love."
"He blesses me already, since it is you who say so."
"And I do say so with all my heart. Why should I not say so to you?
There are so few persons whom one can esteem without reserve!"
"There are some whose esteem is so great a blessing, that, in order to
obtain it one would accept the hatred and contempt of all the rest of
mankind."
"Oh! that is mere politeness; you do not know me well enough----"
"I know you, madame, by your acts of kindness, by the nobleness and
delicacy of your heart. One must needs be deaf not to know you, blind
not to understand you; and the calling down of one more blessing on your
head cannot surprise you, provided that it be done humbly by one forever
prostrate at your feet."
Julie felt that the atmosphere she breathed was beginning to glow. She
instinctively tried to recover her self-possession, but could not find
the necessary courage to run away from that perilous interview.
"Are you also pleased," she said, "to recover the house in which you
grew up?"
"Pleased for my poor mother's sake, oh! yes, madame; but on my own
account--no!"
"Are you attached to Paris?"
"No, not at all; but----"
Julien's glowing, melting eyes said plainly enough what his thoughts
were. Julie understood only too well. She tried to change the subject;
she looked at the artist's pictures, she praised his talent, which was
revealed to her simultaneously with his love, and she thought that she
was telling him that she understood his art; but really it was his
passion that she understood, and each word they uttered betrayed the
all-absorbing thought that was in their minds. They both suddenly became
so confused that they had no idea what they were talking about, and
Madame d'Estrelle pounced upon Monsieur Antoine's lily in order to seem
to be talking about something.
"Ah! what a lovely flower," she said, "and how sweet it smells!"
"Do you like it?" cried Julien.
And with the heedless impetuosity of a lover drunk with joy, he broke
the stalk of the _Antonia Thierrii_, and presented the superb flower to
Julie.
Julie knew nothing whatever of the affair in which that plant played so
important a part; she had not seen Marcel for three days, and as Madame
Thierry carefully avoided any mention of Monsieur Antoine's name,
nothing had been told her. When she was invited to a christening at the
hôtel de Melcy on the following day, she naturally supposed that the
subject was the child of some favorite gardener. In short she was a
hundred leagues from imagining that by breaking that stalk Julien broke
off all relations with his uncle, and cast, it might be, a whole
lifetime of affluence at the feet of his idol.
And yet she uttered a cry of surprise and terror when she saw the
artist's impulsive act.
"Ah! _mon Dieu!_" she exclaimed, "what are you doing? Your model!"
"I have finished," Julien replied hastily.
"No, you have not finished, I can see that plainly enough!"
"I can finish without a model: I know it by heart!"
And as he cast a last glance of mental possession on the lily, yielding
for a moment to his love for his art, Julie replaced it on its stalk and
held it there, saying with playful and utterly unconscious grace:
"I will hold it, finish your work; it will not wither at once. Come,
make haste. The painting is so lovely! I should never forgive myself if
I were the cause of your giving it up. Work away, I insist upon it!"
"You insist?" said the bewildered Julien.
And as there was another fresh piece of canvas behind his picture, he
drew and painted with furious ardor Madame d'Estrelle's shapely and
beautiful hand. The lily did not progress. It stood on its stalk to no
purpose, while the unconscious Julie held it there waiting until it
should droop never to rise again.
O Uncle Antoine! where were you while such a crime was being committed,
fearlessly and remorselessly, under the eye of a drowsing or evil-minded
Providence?
A noise on the stairs recalled Julie to herself; it was Marcel coming
down to tell Julien that his mother had agreed to see Monsieur Antoine
when he returned to the pavilion. Madame d'Estrelle, ashamed to be
surprised in that tête-à-tête and on such extraordinarily familiar
terms with the artist, hurriedly pushed the stalk of the _Antonia_ into
the light, moist earth in the pot. The _Antonia_ seemed to have noticed
nothing and preserved its freshness and beauty, Marcel entered and did
not discover the catastrophe.
The countess's presence was enough of a surprise for him. She felt
exceedingly shamefaced before him, and Julien observed it. He at once,
with true manliness, surmounted all emotion, and with imperturbable
self-possession informed Marcel that madame la comtesse had just arrived
and wished to speak with his mother. At the same time he brought a chair
forward for Julie, as if she had not been seated at all, then left the
room to tell Madame Thierry, saluting his visitor with respectful
dignity.
Madame d'Estrelle was infinitely grateful to the artist for this sudden
resolution. Even that slight indication showed her that he was no child
capable of compromising her by ill-timed ingenuousness, but a man fully
armed and ready to protect her against all the world, to save her at
need from the consequences of her own rashness. She loved him altogether
for it, but she felt at the same time that he was the master of her
destiny, since there was already a secret between them to be concealed
from the searching glances of their common friends.
While she tried to give Marcel a rapid _résumé_ of her conversation
with Monsieur Antoine, Julien entered his mother's room. She saw such a
radiant expression on his face that she cried out:
"_Mon Dieu!_ how beautiful your eyes are this morning! What on earth has
happened?"
"Madame d'Estrelle is downstairs," said Julien. "She brings you joy and
comfort. She has induced Monsieur Antoine to redeem your dear little
_cabin._ Come quickly! put up your hair and come down to thank your good
angel."
Madame Thierry, surprised, overjoyed, and at the same time dismayed--for
the mother's eye could not be deceived, but saw clearly the restrained
passion under Julien's apparent frankness,--was so overwhelmed that she
burst into tears.
"Well, well," said Julien, "what does this mean? Poor mother! you are so
stout-hearted in misfortune; can't you endure joy? Come, let your hair
hang down, if you can't put it up and come down just as you are. Madame
d'Estrelle will see you weeping for joy, and that will not make her feel
hurt, I promise you!"
"Julien! Julien! there is pain blended with my pleasure! yes, and fear
too!"
"You are afraid you will have to thank Monsieur Antoine? Nonsense, you
unforgiving creature! that is too childish!"
Madame Thierry was on the point of swooning. Julien almost lost patience
with her, for her agitation caused him to lose minutes, seconds which he
might have passed with Julie. Marcel, who was delighted by the good news
she had brought, was also vexed by his aunt's delay, and went upstairs
to hurry her. So that Julie was left alone in the studio for several
moments.
Those moments, swiftly as they passed, seemed afterward like a century
in her memory, for the light shone into her heart in a single dazzling
ray. "Your happiness is found," said an inward voice in a tone of
sovereign authority: "it is here. It consists in nothing less than the
possession of a boundless love concealed in the bosom of a narrow,
straitened existence. Julien's mother knew and enjoyed that happiness
throughout her youth. Intercourse with the world and opulence added
nothing to her happiness. They rather diminished it by introducing ideas
foreign to love. Forget society, you will be the better for it. Break
with your whole past, which deceived you and set you at odds with
yourself. Become reconciled to your own beginnings, which are more
nearly connected with the third estate than with the nobility; and to
your conscience, which reproaches you for having listened to the advice
of false glory and for having yielded to the threats of your ambitious
kinsfolk; seek to be received back into favor by the God who abandons
souls which are enamored of false joys; be true, be strong like this
young man who adores you, and who has just revealed to you in a glance
the greatest and noblest passion you will ever inspire!"
As she listened to this mysterious voice in her own heart, Julie looked
about her and was surprised to find that a divine tranquillity succeeded
to the agitation which had overwhelmed her. She thoroughly relished the
charm of a very simple little phenomenon. Short-sighted though she was,
she was able to see everything in a room so much smaller than those to
which she was accustomed. A very humble dwelling was that Louis XIII.
pavilion; but it was embellished by a tastefulness of arrangement which
revealed the artist whose love of refinement was not lessened by
poverty. The building was not ugly in itself. The deep, broad
window-recess where the widow had installed her arm-chair as in a little
sanctum, with her spinning-wheel, her little table and the cushion for
her feet, imparted a sort of homelike Flemish aspect to that part of the
studio; the rest had been recently restored, but with the strictest
economy. Plain gray wainscoting with raised borders to the panels;
straight lines everywhere, but nothing out of proportion; a white
ceiling, rather low, but devoid of any crushing effect; above the doors,
oval spaces with very simple garlands of foliage carved on wood and
painted, as was the beading of the panels, a deeper shade of gray than
the rest; two or three beautiful fruit and flower pieces, highly prized
specimens of André Thierry's work, with several sketches and one or two
small studies by Julien; a large bowl of Rouen porcelain, standing on a
console in front of a mirror, and filled with wild flowers and green
branches gracefully arranged and hanging to the floor; a small rug
before the couch, two or three easels, shells, boxes of insects,
statuettes and engravings on a large table; cane-seated oak chairs, and
a small harp, whose old gilded frame glistened in a dark corner, the
only brilliant object in the whole room: surely there was nothing in all
this to denote great affluence; but over it all there was a varnish of
exquisite neatness, an atmosphere of freshness and a soft light most
conducive to revery. The studio was darkened a little by the lilacs in
the garden, which were too near and too dense; but there was a strange
fascination in that greenish light, and there was in the air an
indefinable invitation to rapt contemplation, which Julie felt most
profoundly. What more did one need than that humble and unpretentious
retreat to taste the pure joy and unending bliss of moral security? Of
what benefit was it to Julie to have magnificent furniture, a thousand
trinkets on her what-nots at which she never looked, blue ceilings
starred with gold over her head, Gobelin carpets under her feet, Sèvres
vases to hold her bouquets, lackeys in gold lace to announce her
friends, her pockets full of Chinese fans, and her jewel-cases of
diamonds? All those things had amused her but a single day, and what
playthings can divert a heart that is bored? Julien's austere and
laborious life, his pathetic, never-ending tête-à-tête with his
mother, his love, concealed and prostrate as he himself had said,--these
were surely purer and nobler than the existence, surrounded by flattery,
of a frivolous or blasé nobleman.
A sparrow which Julien had tamed, and which lived among the neighboring
trees, entered the studio and lighted familiarly on Julie's shoulder.
She was surprised for a moment and thought that it was a miracle, a
presage of happiness or of victory. She was really bewildered with
emotion.
At last Madame Thierry appeared, sorely perturbed and deeply moved. She
had insisted upon being left alone with the countess for an instant. She
threw herself at her feet, and, being at once compelled by her to rise,
spoke thus to her:
"You are as kind as the angels, my lovely neighbor. I bless you a
thousand times! But I must tell you of my sorrow as well as my joy: my
son, my dear Julien, is lost if he does not abandon all hope of ever
seeing you again. He loves you, madame, he loves you madly! He deceived
me, he told me that he had hardly seen you in the distance; but he sees
you every day, he gazes at you stealthily, he is driving himself wild,
he is killing himself, by looking at you. He doesn't eat, he doesn't
sleep, he has lost all his cheerfulness, his eyes are hollow, his voice
rings with fever. He has never loved before, but I know how he will
love, how he loves already. Alas! he has an excitable temperament, with
a mind of extraordinary constancy. Discourage him if possible, madame,
by not looking at him, by not speaking to him, by never seeing him
again. Have mercy on him and on me, and do not come to our house again!
In a few days we shall go away; absence will cure him perhaps. If it
does not cure him, I do not know what I shall do to avoid dying of
grief."
Madame Thierry sobbed bitterly, and there was in her tears an eloquence
born of conviction which dealt Julie the last blow. Her whole dream of
happiness seemed destined to vanish in face of this mother's despair.
That delicious revery which had poured such balm into her heart was a
mere vagary at which she herself would smile when she returned home. Had
she decided to break all social bonds in order to throw herself into the
arms of a man whom she had just seen for the first time? That was a most
absurd idea, and Madame Thierry was a thousand times right in looking
upon it as impossible. Julie made an effort to agree with her and to
drive away the vertigo that had assailed her; but the charm must have
been exceedingly potent, for it seemed to her that reason had torn the
heart out of her breast, and, instead of devising some dignified and
sensible response to encourage the poor mother, she threw herself into
her arms and followed her example by bursting into tears.
These tears so surprised Madame Thierry that she nearly lost her head.
She dared not ask for an explanation of them; nor indeed had she any
time to do so, for Julien and Marcel entered the room.
"Come, come, my dear mother," said the former, "you weep too much, and I
am sure that you have forgotten to thank madame and make up your mind
what to do. Marcel tells me that you ought also to thank Monsieur
Thierry in person, and to go to his house to-morrow to----"
At that moment Julien, who was trying to see Julie's face, which was
turned toward the window, detected the furtive movement she made to
conceal and wipe away her tears. He forced back an exclamation, and
involuntarily stepped toward her. Marcel, who saw the extraordinary
confusion of the two women, but could not understand it at all, unless
it meant that Madame Thierry had had an attack of hysterics and had said
something too affecting to the countess, tried to take up Julien's
interrupted sentence and continue the conversation.
"Yes, yes," he said, "to-morrow we are to attend the christening of----"
But he followed Julien's example, and stood with staring eye and parted
lips, unable to utter another word; for he had glanced, not at Julie,
but at the plant which he was about to name, and saw that it was reduced
to a parcel of leaves from which protruded a broken stalk, wet with the
sap that dropped from it like tears.
"Where is it?" he cried in dismay. "Great God, Julien, what have you
done with it? where is the _Antonia?_"
Nobody answered. Madame Thierry looked at Julien, who looked at nobody
but Madame d'Estrelle, and Madame d'Estrelle, who knew nothing about the
lily, did not know what to think of her solicitor's unaffected dismay.
"What are you looking for, pray?" she said, rising.
And as she rose she dropped at her feet the _Antonia_, which, when she
was left alone, she had taken from the vase again and laid lovingly on
her knees.
Madame Thierry understood at once. Marcel simply noticed the fact; he
had no suspicion of the real explanation.
"Ah! madame," he exclaimed, "to any other than you I should say that you
have ruined us! But what can I say to you? And, after all, why need we
fear, when you are the culprit? Uncle Antoine cannot possibly be angry
with you, as you did not know. Did not Julien tell you?"
"Evidently Julien did not explain matters to our benefactress," said
Madame Thierry; "but she must see that everybody here is not in his
right mind, and that, by seeking to assist us, she runs the risk of
adding to our woes."
"You are the one who is not in her right mind, mother," cried Julien,
vehemently. "Really I don't understand you to-day! You are over-excited;
your words betray your thoughts. It seems that, instead of thanking
Madame d'Estrelle, you have been confiding to her some dreams or other."
Julien continued to scold his mother, who began to weep afresh. Marcel,
observing Madame d'Estrelle's stupefaction, led her aside and gave her
in three words the key to the mystery, and with it tangible proof, so to
speak, of the young artist's ardent passion. She was profoundly affected
at first, but she recovered her presence of mind and summoned all her
strength to turn aside the blow which threatened the family.
[Illustration 03: _A DISTURBED CONFERENCE_
_Julien roughly enjoined silence on Marcel, grasping
his arm and whispering_:
"_For God's sake, hush! there is somebody outside
listening!_"]
"Leave it to me," she said to Madame Thierry, striving to be cheerful;
"I take everything on myself. It was I who committed the sin, it is for
me to repair it."
"The sin! What sin?" cried Julien.
"Yes, yes, I took a fancy to that flower and asked you for it! No, no!
what am I saying? I am losing my mind! It was I who broke it, a foolish
caprice--in a fit of absent-mindedness! You were not here. I am awkward,
I can't see very well--However, I will explain it all to your uncle.
_Mon Dieu!_ what do you expect that he will do? He won't beat me. I will
humbly beg his forgiveness; he is not so hard-hearted!"
"Alas!" said Madame Thierry, "unfortunately he is very hard-hearted when
he is injured, and if he knew that Julien had committed this
sacrilege----"
"So it was really Julien who did it?" said Marcel, utterly dumbfounded.
"This is very strange!"
"Well, yes, it was I, I alone!" replied Julien, vehemently, "and there
is nothing strange about it."
"Yes indeed there is!" said Marcel in an undertone, his eyes suddenly
opened to the secret of the catastrophe. "You are a little too mad, my
boy, and your heart must be as fickle as your brain to sacrifice your
mother's future and your own in this way; to say nothing of the fact
that Madame d'Estrelle is too kind, and that she would have done much
better to teach you your place."
"Hush, Marcel, hush!" said Julien, "you are talking nonsense; you don't
understand."
"I understand too well," replied Marcel, "and, on my word, I agree with
your mother now, I say that you are losing your wits!"
This dialogue in undertones was carried on in the window-recess, while
the two women stood together near the vase in which Madame Thierry was
trying to replant the stalk of the beheaded lily, talking at random, and
saying nothing which had the slightest meaning; for her greatest source
of perturbation was not the _Antonia_, but the storm of passion which
had caused its destruction. Suddenly Julien, who was in the habit of
handling the curtain and examining the slit through which he looked into
the garden, roughly enjoined silence on Marcel, grasping his arm and
whispering:
"For God's sake, hush! there is somebody outside listening!"
IV
There was someone there in truth, and it was too late to keep silent.
Uncle Antoine had overheard all. How he came to be there, prowling about
and spying, in Madame d'Estrelle's garden, we shall soon learn. Marcel
felt Julien's gesture, discovered the slit in the curtain, and, looking
out in his turn, saw the ogre listening. He left the window and warned
Madame d'Estrelle. They talked together for a moment in pantomime. They
had not been able to decide what course they should pursue, when
Antoine, hearing nothing more, knocked at the garden door.
It was a good deal like the arrival of the statue at Pierre's festival.
Julien was about to open the door, when Madame d'Estrelle, with a rapid
forecast of the absurd scene to which her presence would give rise and
of the deplorable outbreak which might follow if she were not present,
instantly made up her mind as to her own course, detained Julien
authoritatively by placing her hand on the young artist's quivering arm,
and, motioning to him and to the others not to stir, she went into the
vestibule, opened the door herself, and found herself face to face with
Monsieur Antoine. Although he had prepared his part, he was a little
surprised himself, whereas he expected to surprise everybody.
"You, neighbor?" said Julie, feigning astonishment. "What are you doing
here? Did you come back to my house? Who told you where I was? and what
induced you to pass through my garden?"
And, without waiting for his reply, she passed her arm through the
horticulturist's and led him some distance from the pavilion to the
shore of the little pond in the centre of the lawn in front of the
mansion.
"Why--I was going to the pavilion," stammered Monsieur Antoine.
"So I assume, as I found you at the door."
"I was going there--with kindly intentions; but----"
"Who doubts it? Not I certainly, my friend."
"Ah! at last you call me what I want you to call me! Very good, then you
are willing to talk with me alone, I see--The same with me; I want to
talk to you about an idea of mine----"
"Let us sit down on this bench, neighbor, and I will listen to you; but
first you must listen to me, for I have a confession to make to you."
"Pshaw! pshaw! I know what your confession is; you plucked my lily,
didn't you?"
"Ah! _mon Dieu!_ how did you know it?"
"I overheard a few words and I guessed the rest. Why need you have
broken the poor flower? Couldn't you have asked me for it? couldn't you
wait till to-morrow? I intended to give it to you."
"But--suppose I did not do it on purpose?"
"You didn't do it on purpose?"
Julie felt that she was blushing, for Antoine scrutinized her closely,
and there was a half bitter, half tender irony in his little black eyes.
"Really," she replied, trying to save herself by a Jesuitical expedient,
"the accident happened against my desire."
"Good," rejoined Antoine, still staring at her, "put it that way, I like
that better."
"You like that better--than what?"
"_Mordié!_ yes, I like it better. Come, abandon the worthless cause you
are trying to plead; condemn Master Julien's madness and disloyalty
without reserve; let me punish him as I think best."
"But what makes you think that Master Julien----"
"Oh! don't try to lie any more," cried Monsieur Antoine, springing to
his feet as if impelled by the quivering of his whole irritable and
passionate little being; "it isn't becoming in you to lie, you know! And
then it's no use, for I tell you I heard everything, and as I'm no fool
I concluded--Julien has taken a fancy to you, and the rascal would tell
you so if he dared!"
"What do you say, Monsieur Thierry?"
"I say--I say things as they are. Mademoiselle de Meuil was as proud as
you can possibly be; my brother André told her fairy stories, and he
ended by making her listen to him. All men and all women are made of the
same stuff, I tell you! There's only one question of any importance now:
does Julien take your fancy, yes or no?"
"Monsieur Thierry, if I did not know that you have a kind heart, your
wretched manners would disgust me! Be kind enough to adopt a different
tone, or I shall leave you."
"Ah! you propose to be angry, do you? Your pride has taken hold of you
again, and you are going to turn your back on me? Why? All this is no
concern of yours! Julien did the crazy thing, it is for him to pay for
it."
"No, Monsieur Thierry, that is my place. My bungling caused the
accident; if I had not admired and praised the flower too
enthusiastically--He felt obliged to offer it to me--courtesy----"
"Poor reasons, poor reasons, my fair lady! The rascal knew perfectly
well that I would have thrown the flower, the plant, the garden, aye,
and the gardener to boot, at your feet. If he didn't know it, he should
have guessed it, and, in any event, he had no right to play the gallant
with my property; it's kidnapping, it's an abuse of confidence and a
theft. He will live to rue it and his dear mamma will find out what it
costs to have an ill-bred son play the courtier to great ladies at just
the wrong time."
"Come, come, my good neighbor," cried Madame d'Estrelle, deeply
distressed and annoyed, "surely you do not propose to withdraw your
favor from them; you are not going to give me the lie, for I placed you
on a pedestal; you are not going to break off the friendship which you
and I contracted to-day, just for a flower more or less in your
collection? Your fortune makes a loss so easily repaired of little
consequence."
"You talk very jauntily about it! There are some things which millions
can't replace, and which a man of taste considers beyond all price!"
"Oh! _mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ who could have guessed that?"
"Julien knew it."
"Impossible!"
"I tell you he knew it."
"Then he is mad; but that is not his mother's fault: she was not there."
"It is his mother's fault! She encourages him to love you, she scrapes
acquaintance with you in order to induce you to do what she did for her
husband."
"No! as to that, I give you my word of honor you are wrong, Monsieur
Thierry! She is in despair----"
"At what? Ah! you see, she has spoken to you about it, and you knew of
the young man's presumption."
Madame d'Estrelle struggled to no purpose. All the prudence of her sex,
all the pride of her rank, all her natural shrewdness, and all her
familiarity with society went for naught against the rich man's narrow
and uncompromising logic. She was as if caught in a vise, and felt
shamefaced, awkward, helpless, at the end of a no thoroughfare. What
should she do? Turn out this boor who forced her to submit to a
distasteful examination, and thereby abandon the cause of the poor
Thierrys and turn them over to his vengeance; or restrain herself,
defend herself as best she could, and submit to the humiliation of the
most untimely of reprimands?
"It seems," she said with sorrowful resignation, "that I made a very
great mistake in going into that pavilion! I was very far from having
any such idea, I had never seen Master Julien Thierry, and I started out
with my mind full of your fine promises, to carry joy to his poor
mother! I am well punished now for being so enthusiastic about you,
Monsieur Thierry, since you consider that you are entitled to lecture me
as if I were a little girl, and to call me to account for the most
innocent if not the most honorable step that one woman can take toward
another!"
"For that reason you are not the one whom I blame," replied Monsieur
Antoine, softened in one direction and proportionately more irritated in
the other; "the true culprits are the ones I blame without appeal. Do
you know what would have happened if I had entered just at the moment
when Master Julien was breaking my lily? Why, I would have broken Master
Julien! Yes, as sure as I am talking to you, the head of this cane would
have broken his painter's head!"
Madame d'Estrelle was alarmed by Monsieur Antoine's excited, vindictive
manner; she was really afraid of him and involuntarily looked about her,
as if in search of protection in case his wrath should turn against
herself. She fancied that she could hear a rustling in the dense foliage
behind the bench, and although it might have been only a bird hopping
among the branches, she felt vaguely reassured.
"No, my good neighbor," she rejoined with courageous mildness, "you
cannot make me believe that you are a bad man, and you will do nothing
unkind to anyone. You may vent your wrath on me alone, within the limits
of your rights in that direction. You may scold me--and I will accept
the rebuke. I will promise you what I have already promised myself,
never to set foot in that pavilion again. What more can I do? Come, tell
me."
At that moment the foliage stirred again, and Julien's tame sparrow came
and perched on Madame d'Estrelle's shoulder, as if sent by him to ask
her forgiveness. She was more deeply moved by that little incident than
she chose to admit, and she took the little creature, which was already
on familiar terms with her, in her hand, with a sort of affection.
"_Hum!_" said Monsieur Antoine, whose piercing eyes seemed to possess
the power of divination; "that's a strange kind of a companion! Is it
yours?"
"Yes," replied Julie, fearful of some revengeful act against Julien.
"A sparrow! Vile beasts! they do nothing but harm. If it wasn't
yours--Did Julien give it to you?"
"Nonsense! you think of nothing but Julien!" said Madame d'Estrelle,
losing patience; "really I don't know what direction our explanation is
taking. I am very, very sorry for what has happened, I regret extremely
that I was the cause of it; but can you not tell me how I can repair it,
instead of hurling all these offensive insinuations at my head?"
"Do you want me to tell you?"
"Yes! have I not promised to go to your house to-morrow to attend a
family festival?"
"The christening of my poor _Antonia!_ That is out of the question now.
The child is dead, or at all events disfigured. I ought to invite my
friends to a funeral. And then, you see, this idea of inviting Madame
André and making the best of a bad business with her son--that isn't to
my liking--that is to say it is no longer to my liking, unless----"
"Speak," said Madame d'Estrelle eagerly, for she began to think that the
rich man, repenting of his munificence, might contemplate a reduction in
the price he had offered for the pavilion. "I agree to anything that
will indemnify and pacify you."
Master Antoine's vanity was immeasurable. Madame d'Ancourt, whom he had
seen an hour earlier, had, in her spite against Julie, puffed him up by
confirming his presumptuous hopes. He had returned with the intention of
offering himself. Not finding Julie in her salon, he had mustered
courage to surprise her in the garden. The incident of the broken lily
seemed to hasten forward the opportunity. His brain whirled with insane
conceit and he made his declaration.
"Madame," he said, "you force me to it with your pretty words and your
gentle manners; I am going to stake all to win all, and if you are angry
at what I say, the fault is your own. Let us see! you are not rich, and
I know that you weren't born on the steps of a throne. I believe that
you are not proud either, since you go to a poor painter's studio and
accept his attentions--at my expense!--a good joke, eh? But no matter;
let us laugh over it, but let us come to something reasonable at last.
It makes no difference if Julien has ancestors on his mother's side,
he's my nephew, he's a plebeian. Do you despise him for that?"
"No indeed!"
"Then his crime is being poor, eh? But suppose he was rich, very rich,
then what would you say to him?"
"Do you propose to give him a dowry, so that I can marry him?" cried
Madame d'Estrelle in utter amazement.
"Who said anything about that?"
"Excuse me! I thought----"
"You thought that I was suggesting an idiotic performance to you! What
is an artist? It would be of no use for me to give him a dowry; money I
had earned wouldn't raise him in your eyes, I fancy. Consideration
belongs of right to those who have carved out their own lot in life and
have earned success by their shrewdness in business. Come, you
understand what I mean! I offer you an excellent match, a good-sized
fortune, and a name that makes some noise in the world. The man is one
who will gratify all your wishes as long as he lives and leave you all
his property after his death; who has no former mistresses nor unlawful
children, nor debts, nor worries, nor ties of any sort. Lastly he is a
man who might be your grandfather, and whom no one will ever accuse you
of choosing from caprice or coquetry, but who will do credit to your
good sense and your honorable feelings; for you have debts, more debts
than property. I know the amount of 'em! It is pretty big, and if Marcel
were a good calculator, he wouldn't tell you to go to sleep. Reflect on
what I say! Great annoyances are in store for you if you say no, while
everybody will congratulate you on making a sensible match. You seem
tremendously surprised, and yet your friend the baroness told you--but
perhaps she didn't tell you the amount?"
"Five millions, isn't it?" replied Julie, who had become pale and
reserved. "So it was you she referred to, and you are talking about
yourself?"
"Very well, what then? It scandalizes you, it insults you, does it?"
"No, Monsieur Thierry," Julie replied with a mighty effort. "On the
contrary I am highly honored by your offers, but----"
"But what? my age? Do you suppose I propose to play the lover? No! thank
God, I never had that weakness, and I don't propose to make myself
ridiculous at my age. I simply propose to be your father by contract,
and to employ marriage as a means of making you my heiress. Well, that's
enough of talk. You must say yes or no, for I am not of a disposition to
remain in doubt, and I don't choose to be humiliated, do you
understand?"
Monsieur Antoine spoke in a curiously imperious tone; Julie was afraid
that a refusal would exasperate him.
"You go too fast," she said; "as it happens, I am naturally hesitating
and timid. You must give me time to reflect."
"Then you don't say no?" rejoined the old man, evidently flattered by
the hope that he was allowed to retain.
"I say nothing," replied Madame d'Estrelle, who had risen and was
walking toward her house with some anxiety. "At this moment I am utterly
bewildered by an offer which I did not expect. Give me a few days to
think, to consult my feelings.--Really, I am deeply moved, deeply
touched by your friendship, and also very much alarmed, for I had sworn
to remain free! Adieu, Monsieur Thierry, leave me! I really long to be
left alone with my conscience, and I do not want you to try to take it
by surprise by your kindness."
Julie made her escape, and Uncle Antoine left the garden, forgetting the
pavilion, the picture, the lily, everything, and in the throes of a
fever of hope which made him act more like a madman than ever; but, when
he found himself on Rue de Babylone, in front of the pavilion, he was
seized with a fierce longing to torment and puzzle and confound his
relations. He rang and was admitted by Marcel, who was anxiously
awaiting the result of his interview with Julie.
"Well," he said abruptly, "where is my plant? has Master Julien finished
my picture?"
"Go into the studio," said Marcel; "you will see your picture all
finished, and your lily as fresh as if nothing had happened to it."
"Oh! yes," muttered Antoine satirically, "of course it did it good to be
broken!"
And he entered the studio with his hat on, without glancing at or seeing
his sister-in-law, who was sitting in her little straw arm-chair in the
window-recess, thoughtful and downcast. He walked straight to his lily,
examined the fracture, and looked carefully at the flower, which was
still blooming in the moist earth. Then he looked at the picture of the
_Antonia_ and said:
"I am satisfied with it; but you shan't have my custom, I tell you!"
Then he walked across the studio, passed close to Madame Thierry and saw
her, put his hand to the brim of his hat, saying in a surly tone: "Your
servant, madame!" returned to Marcel, laughed in his face for no
apparent cause, like a crazy man, and at last strode toward the door,
frantic because he could find nothing to say to satisfy his thirst for
revenge, without sacrificing the good opinion of his conduct which he
wished his _fiancée_ to retain.
Marcel, seeing his agitation, detained him.
"Come, come, uncle," he said, "we must find out where we are! Has the
Comtesse d'Estrelle obtained our forgiveness, or must I sell my office
to pay for the damage?"
"The Comtesse d'Estrelle," replied the old man, "is a judicious person,
who knows how to tell the difference between people without brains and a
man of sound sense. You will see the proof of it some day or other."
Madame Thierry, who could not endure her brother-in-law's overbearing
manner, and who fancied that he meant to defy her, rose to go up to her
room. Antoine bowed very slightly and added:
"I didn't say that for your benefit, Madame André. I have nothing to
say to you."
"Nor I to you," retorted the widow, in a tone whose disdainful
bitterness she strove in vain to stifle, as a matter of prudence.
And with a courtesy to Monsieur Antoine she withdrew.
Julien chafed at his bit in silence, incapable of humiliating himself by
apologies, and Marcel followed with a keen glance the horticulturist's
awkward and excited movements.
"What's the matter, uncle?" he said when Madame Thierry had gone out.
"You are brooding over something good or something evil. Tell us the
truth, that will be the better way."
"The truth, the truth," rejoined Monsieur Antoine, "we shall see the
truth, aye, and know it when the time comes! And perhaps everybody won't
laugh at it!"
Julien, who was still painting, lost his patience. He put down his
palette, and, removing the carelessly twisted handkerchief which the
painters of that time wore in the studio instead of a cap, he walked
straight to Monsieur Thierry and forcibly interrupted his noisy, excited
promenade. Then, with a serious and determined expression, he asked him
to explain his vague threats.
"Monsieur my uncle," he said, "you act as if you propose to drive me to
extremities; but I shall not on that account fail in the respect I owe
you. Consider simply, I beg you, that I am not a child who can be made
to tremble by contracting the eyebrows and assuming a deep voice. You
would do better to observe and understand the real fact, that is to say
the sorrow which I really feel for having offended you. Do not ask me
how that disaster happened: oblivion of one's surroundings,
absent-mindedness cannot be explained; but, since the thing is done,
what do you propose to do to punish me, or what do you require me to do
to atone for it? I am ready to prove my repentance or to submit to the
consequences of my wrong-doing. Decide and do not threaten any more;
that will be more worthy of you and of me."
Monsieur Antoine stopped short, apparently unmoved, but in reality
greatly mortified by the superiority of the defendant's attitude over
the judge's at that moment. He was afraid in a measure of appearing
ridiculous, and a diabolical idea suggested itself to his mind as a
means of putting an end to his embarrassment.
"Everything depends on Madame d'Estrelle," he said. "If she wishes, if
she demands it, I will do all that I had promised to do for your mother,
and I will even forgive you, notwithstanding the wicked thing you did;
but I will do it on the condition that she comes to my house to-morrow
with the rest of you, as she promised."
"But," said Marcel, "if everything is made up between you, didn't you
remind her just now of the appointment?"
"I am not speaking to you, attorney," retorted Antoine; "do me the favor
to leave the room, I want to talk with Master Julien alone."
"Go on, go on," said Marcel. "I am just going, for someone has been
waiting in my office for me fully an hour. I will return and find out
what you have decided."
When Julien and his uncle were alone, the latter assumed an even more
comical air of solemnity.
"Listen," he said, "I want you to do an errand for me. You must go to
the hôtel d'Estrelle."
"Excuse me, uncle, I shall not go there, for I should not be admitted."
"I count on your not being admitted. You will carry a letter, wait for
the answer in the antechamber, and bring it back to me."
"Very well," said Julien, thinking that he could stop at the porter's
lodge. "Where is the letter?"
"Give me something to write with."
"Here," said Julien, opening the drawer of his table. The horticulturist
sat down and wrote rapidly; then he called Julien, who dissembled his
impatience by removing his working jacket and putting on his coat, which
he had dropped on a chair.
"Will you have a seal?" he inquired.
"Not yet. I want you to correct my note. I don't pride myself on my
knowledge, and I may have made mistakes in spelling. Read it over for
me, read it aloud, and then correct it, periods, commas and everything."
Julien, feeling that a trap was being set for him, cast a rapid glance
over the few lines which his uncle had written in a firm hand. His head
swam, and he was very near tearing the paper in his indignation; but he
thought that he was being subjected to a test by that crabbed, eccentric
mortal. He restrained his wrath, met without flinching the ferociously
searching gaze that was fixed upon him, and read in a firm voice the
contents of the note:
"Madame and friend:
"We were so confused just now that we parted without making arrangements
for to-morrow. I do not conceal from you that I shall regard your
presence at my little party as a fresh ground of hope, and your refusal
as a rupture or a regrettable delay of settlement. I have told you that
I did not propose to be fooled, and you promised to be sincere. The
night brings counsel. I am sure that to-morrow you will confirm me in
the pleasant thoughts you allowed me to take away from your presence.
"Your friend and servant, who is impatient to call himself your fiancé,
"ANTOINE THIERRY."
"Well," queried the old man when Julien had finished reading, "are there
any mistakes?"
"Yes, a great many, uncle," said Julien tranquilly, taking the pen.
"Gently! I don't want her to see the corrections. Fix it neatly."
"It is done. Now seal it and write the address."
"Well, what do you say to that?" continued the uncle, writing Madame
d'Estrelle's name on the envelope.
"Nothing," replied Julien. "I don't believe in it."
"Will you believe in it if you deliver the letter?"
"Yes."
"Then what will you say?"
"Nothing. It's your affair."
"Damnation! you are interested in it too!"
"How so, please?"
"The purchase of your house at Sèvres and its presentation to you
depend on that letter."
"Very good, uncle. In that case, many thanks,"
"You have an air----"
"I have no air at all. Look at me."
Antoine could not support Julien's piercing and fearless glance.
"Come, off with you!" he said angrily; "take my letter."
"I will go at once," said Julien.
He took up his hat.
"Where shall I bring you the reply?"
"In the street, in front of the house, where I will wait for you. Let us
both go."
They went out together. Julien went straight to the porter, closely
watched by his uncle, who did not lose sight of him; but, instead of
entrusting the letter to that functionary, as he had determined at
first, he said to him that he wished to speak to the _valet de chambre_,
and walked rapidly across the courtyard without turning. When he reached
the antechamber Julien delivered the letter and sat down on the waiting
bench, with the manner of one who does not expect to be received; but he
said to the valet:
"Please inform madame la comtesse that, if there is any reply, Monsieur
Antoine Thierry's nephew is waiting here to carry it to him."
Julien waited three minutes. The servant returned and said:
"Madame la comtesse desires to ask you some questions. Take the trouble
to walk this way."
He opened a door at one side of the room and walked ahead. Julien
followed him through a dark corridor; then the servant opened another
door, placed a chair for him and withdrew.
Julien was alone in a handsome dining-room, the main door of which was
opposite him. A moment later that door opened and Madame d'Estrelle
appeared. She was very pale and excited.
"I receive you here," she said, "because I have visitors in my salon,
and I cannot express myself before anyone on the subject which brings
you here. Did Monsieur Antoine himself hand you this letter?"
"Yes, madame."
"And you know nothing of its contents, of course?"
"I do, madame."
"And yet you undertook to deliver it?"
"Yes, madame."
"Why so?"
"In order to find out whether my uncle is mad enough to be locked up, or
fiendishly cruel."
"In other words--you were not sure--you wished to know if I had given
him any right to write such a letter?"
"I did not believe it, and I expected that you would order me to be
turned away without a reply."
"Then--as I receive you, you conclude----?"
"Nothing, madame, except that you can do nothing more cruel than leave
me in uncertainty."
"Why should you take such a great interest in my affairs? Am I
responsible to anyone?"
"Oh! madame, do not speak to me in that tone," cried Julien, fairly
beside himself. "Either my uncle's wealth has imposed silence on your
repugnance, and in that case I have absolutely nothing to say to you, or
else you submitted to his impertinent offers with a patience which
misled him; and if you were so patient, so kind as that to him, I can
easily guess the reason. You were afraid that Monsieur Antoine's
resentment would fall on us!"
"That is true, Master Julien; I thought of your mother, I avoided giving
him an answer, I asked for time to reflect, I hoped that, in order to
please me, he would first keep the promise he made me to restore Madame
Thierry to happiness and comfort. That was wrong perhaps, for I was not
frank, and that is contrary to my nature. Indeed, could I believe that
that irascible, ill-mannered old man would begin by trying to compromise
me? And yet that is just what is happening, and God knows what
disagreeable consequences this may have for me! but I am wrong to think
about it. When I see my endeavors to assist you come to naught, I am
selfish to complain, and really my greatest sorrow consists in my being
unable to be of any service to you after being the cause of your
disaster. And what am I to do with a man who takes my fear for coquetry
and my silence for an avowal?"
Julien knelt on one knee, and as Madame d'Estrelle, surprised and
terrified, was about to fly, he said:
"Fear nothing from me, madame; this is no stage declaration; I am not
mad, and I am absolutely serious in thanking you on my knees in my
mother's name. Your kindness is of the sort which men adore and which no
words can describe. Now," he added, rising, "I have the right to say to
you that I am a man, and that I should despise myself if, even for love
of the most loving of mothers, I should accept the sacrifice of your
pride for a single instant. No, madame, no! Monsieur Antoine Thierry
must not be spared, he must not believe for another instant that he can
aspire--Poor man! he is mad; but madmen need to be held in check like
inconvenient and dangerous children. I will take charge of him, and with
your permission I will go at once and disabuse his mind forever."
"Ah! _mon Dieu!_ you will go yourself?" said Julie. "No! do not drive
him to extremities; I will write."
"But I do not choose that you shall write," replied Julien with a proud
vehemence which did not displease Madame d'Estrelle. "Do you think that
I am a child to be afraid of his anger, or a coward to leave you exposed
to his importunities? Do you think that my mother would be any more
willing than myself to accept favors which would cost you the shadow of
a falsehood? Is it for you to deal tenderly with anyone, and suffer for
our sake, who would give our lives to spare you the slightest suffering?
No, madame, learn to know us better. My mother's sentiments are as lofty
as your own; she accepted Monsieur Antoine's benefactions with the very
greatest reluctance. To-day she would blush to do it; she will detest
the mere thought when she knows what they cost you. And as for me--I am
of no consequence in your eyes and shall never be anything in your life;
but permit a man, who feels that he is a man of spirit, to tell you that
he fears neither poverty, nor vengeance, nor any sort of persecution. I
have done my duty and I will continue to do it; I will support my mother
until she draws her last breath, and if it is necessary to contend
against the whole world, I shall be able to do it for her. Let this
reassure you touching the fate of her you love so dearly. If only your
friendship were concerned, she would prefer it to all Monsieur Antoine's
wealth, and for my own part, though I had but this moment on earth to
tell you that I love you, I should esteem myself happy and proud to have
been able to say it to you without offence and without presumption; for
I speak to your heart, and there is not a shadow of a sentiment in my
heart that is unworthy of you. Adieu, madame! live happily and at peace;
and if you ever need a man to do something for you that is beyond the
power of all other men, remember that such a man exists, poor, humble,
hidden in a corner, but capable of moving mountains; for when his
mother's welfare is at stake, he is determination and faith
personified."
Julien left the room without asking or waiting for another word from
Madame d'Estrelle, and in a twinkling he was in the street. Antoine was
awaiting him with feverish impatience; he was on the point of bursting
into the hôtel like a bomb when Julien reappeared.
"Well, the answer must be at least four pages long!" he cried. "Where is
it?"
"Come, monsieur," said Julien, offering him his arm to cross the street.
"There is too much noise here for us to hear each other."
They entered into an open field where there was a sign: _For Sale_; and
Julien began thus:
"Monsieur my uncle, Madame d'Estrelle read your letter and summoned me
to her presence so that I might bring you her verbal response."
"Verbal?"
"Yes, word for word."
"Let us hear it!"
"Madame la comtesse, considering that your mind must have been disturbed
when you asked for her hand, was afraid to be alone with you and put an
end to the interview by a promise to reflect; but she had already
reflected, and this is her decision. She regrets that she will be unable
to come to your house to-morrow, and she informs you that from this
moment she will no longer be at home."
"She is going away! Where is she going?"
"It is not for me to interpret, but for you to understand."
"I understand! this is my formal dismissal, is it?"
"Everything tends to make me think so."
"And you are the person she employs to tell me so?"
"No! I took it upon myself without asking her consent."
"Why? I insist upon knowing!"
"You do know, monsieur. Didn't you tell me that my mother's fortune and
my own depended on Madame d'Estrelle's encouragement of your matrimonial
plans? That is why I grasped so eagerly the excuse you gave me to go to
her house, hoping that the extraordinary nature of your letter would
induce her to receive me. That is something you did not anticipate."
"Yes, I did, _mordieu!_" cried Monsieur Antoine; "I said to myself that
that thing would happen if----"
"If what, monsieur?"
"If I had guessed right. I understand."
"But I do not understand."
"That makes no difference to me."
"Excuse me, you want me to guess. You thought that I was foolish enough,
impertinent enough, mad enough to aspire to that lady's favor?"
"And now I am sure of it! You told her of your sentiments, and I see
your air of triumph. At the same time you are rubbing your hands because
you have shown me the door! You will go and tell your dear mother this,
of course! You will say to her: 'The rich man gobbled the bait! He
thought that by tossing us a crust of bread and taking a young wife, he
would make sport of us and disinherit us! Well, he has succeeded simply
in covering himself with shame. He will grow old alone, he will die
unmarried, and we shall be rich in spite of him.'"
"You are mistaken, monsieur," rejoined Julien with perfect
self-possession. "I formed no such contemptible schemes, and I shall
never do anything of the kind. You may marry to-morrow, if you choose,
and whom you choose, and I shall be overjoyed, provided always that my
mother's dignity and mine are not at stake in your undertaking. This is
what I desired to say to Madame d'Estrelle, and what I say to you. And
now I have only to remember that you are my uncle, and humbly to present
you my respects."
Julien was about to go away after bowing low to Monsieur Antoine. But he
recalled him in an imperious tone.
"What about my lily? Who will pay me for it?"
"Put a price on it, monsieur."
"Five hundred thousand francs."
"Are you speaking seriously?"
"Am I speaking seriously?"
"I must believe you, knowing that you are incapable of deceiving a
person who relies upon you."
"Flattery! fawning!"
The blood rose in the young artist's cheeks; he gazed earnestly at
Monsieur Antoine, trying to persuade himself that he was really so
irresponsible that his invectives should not affect a self-possessed
man. Antoine divined his thought and made an effort to be calmer.
"Well, let us say no more about that!" he said. "I will go and pick up
the ruins and the picture; I have lost my outlay of kindness of heart
and confidence. It will teach me not to depart from my ideas and
principles again! Walk first and don't say another word!"
They returned to the studio. There Monsieur Antoine, silent as hatred,
took the flower, the plant, the picture, and refusing to accept anyone's
assistance, without looking at Julien, without moving his lips, he left
the pavilion and did not appear again.
Marcel soon returned and asked Julien what had taken place. Julien told
him frankly and unhesitatingly in Madame Thierry's presence.
"Now," he added, "my inconsiderate conduct alarmed you, I know. You
thought that I was as mad as Uncle Antoine, and my mother is terrified
by a sentiment which she thinks is likely to be disastrous to me.
Undeceive yourself and be calm, my dear mother, and do you, Marcel, give
me back the esteem which you should entertain for a man of sense. One
may be such a man, even if he has been guilty of an imprudence, and I
realize that I was very reckless when I offered our benefactress a thing
which did not belong to me. That was an impulse of gratitude, sadly
misplaced, it is true, but which did not scandalize her, because she saw
in it nothing more than an emotion that was worthy of her and consistent
with the respect that is her due. I flatter myself that she is even more
convinced of it since she granted me an interview, and I swear to you
both, by all I hold most sacred, by filial love and faithful friendship,
that there shall be nothing unpleasant to Madame d'Estrelle, nothing
distressing to you, nothing unbecoming on my part in my future conduct.
Let us not regret the house at Sèvres, my dear mother: we could not
obtain it unless Madame d'Estrelle became Madame Antoine Thierry, and
you certainly do not think that could ever have come to pass. As
for you, my dear Marcel, I bless you for all the trouble you have taken,
but surely you are convinced now that it was all thrown away, and that
Uncle Antoine gives nothing for nothing. Let us be calm now, let us take
up our lives where we dropped them when this evil dream of wealth began.
I still have arms to work with and a heart to love you, and indeed, from
this day forth, I feel more zealous, braver and surer of the future than
I have ever been."
This time Julien was speaking the truth and not simply forcing himself
to be brave in order to comfort his mother. He felt, not perfectly
tranquil, but strong; his two interviews with Julie in quick succession
had given his heart a new direction, a more unerring impulse. He had
found in her presence the inspiration which gave full play to the
seriousness and the generosity of his passion. He was sure that he had
laid bare his heart to her, and that he had neither terrified nor
insulted her. Did he believe that she loved him? No, but it may be that
he had a vague feeling that she did, and there was a mysterious
enjoyment in his reverie. He had attained a perfect understanding of his
mission in the life of exalted and unselfish sentiment which was really
his normal life. What he had said, he proposed to do, and he had
strength to do it. To love in silence, to seek nothing, to obtain
nothing by surprise, and to seize nothing except an opportunity to
devote himself unreservedly to his mission, such was his plan, his
determination, his profession of faith, so to speak.
"And now," he thought, "it may be that I shall suffer terribly despite
my determination; but I shall so enjoy suffering nobly and holding my
peace for love of her, that I shall triumph over my suffering, and my
mother will not again feel its rebound. I must be very strong in the
struggle between my instincts and my duties. And why should I not? I
have always loved lofty ideas and sentiments which are beyond the reach
of the common herd. As I am obliged to be a man, and as I am persuaded
that duty is found in family ties, I shall doubtless do some day as
Marcel has done: I shall marry a virtuous woman, who will be thereafter
my best friend. Until then I propose to remain free and chaste. I
propose to love without hope, and if possible, without desire, this
nobly born Julie who can never be mine; I will overcome the desire, I
will carry fraternal feeling to the point of sublimity, and I will
nourish all my faculties with the sublime. I will be to other people
only a very patient, very amiable young working man, seeking grace and
charm in baskets of roses; but by dint of studying the divine mystery of
purity in the hearts of flowers, one may obtain a revelation of sanctity
in love. It seems to me a fine thing to say to oneself that one might
scheme to surprise the virtue of the woman one loves, and that one loves
her too well to attempt it. The life of which I dream is all meditation
and sentiment. Very well; I will live it as long as possible. I will
live by my thoughts as other people live by their acts, and it may be
that I shall be the happiest of men! I shall feel that I am sustained by
an enthusiasm which will not be worn to shreds by disappointments. I
shall live and breathe alone and every moment in the beautiful, the pure
and the great, with even more satisfaction than my poor father, who was
conscious of a craving for it, but who thought that he could gratify his
craving amid luxurious surroundings or in the society of this or that
great personage. I shall need nothing of that sort, and I shall be far,
far richer, having no other desire than to be satisfied with myself."
In soaring thus resolutely into the regions of the ideal, Julien was in
truth following a secret tendency which had developed in him early in
life. He had received an exceedingly good education, and, while studying
his art assiduously, had read a great deal; but, being naturally
inclined to enthusiasm of an austere sort, he did not indulge his tastes
in all directions or plunge into all sorts of pleasure. Of all that his
youth had fed upon, he had revelled in the great Corneille with the most
satisfaction and benefit. There he had found, in the loftiest form, the
strongest and most daring aspirations to heroism. He preferred teaching
of that sort put in action, those noble virtues manifesting and giving
expression to themselves, to the discussions of contemporary philosophy.
This is not equivalent to saying that he despised the spirit of his
time, or that he held aloof from the extraordinary upheaval of ideas
then in progress. On the contrary he was one of the sturdiest products
of that period which is unique in all history in respect to its
magnificent illusions pending the formation of awe-inspiring
resolutions. Those were the last days of the monarchy, and very few
people then thought of overturning it. At all events Julien was not one
of those who thought of it; he went very far beyond anticipation of any
event whatsoever in politics. He was intoxicated with the discoveries
and dreams of science, moral and physical, recently set free, _en masse_
so to speak, from the clouds of the past. Lagrange, Bailly, Lalande,
Berthollet, Monge, Condorcet and Lavoisier were already revolutionizing
thought. When we reflect upon that rapid succession of fortunate
experiments which, in a few years, produced astronomy from astrology,
chemistry from alchemy, and replaced blind prejudice by experimental
analysis all along the line of human knowledge, we realize that by
making war on superstitions, the philosophers of the 18th century freed
individual genius from its fetters simultaneously with the religious and
social conscience of nations. What presumption then, what excitement,
what intoxication in these first reachings out toward the future! The
human intellect has hailed the bright sun of progress, and already it
thinks to take possession of all its rays. No sooner has the first
balloon arisen on its wings of flame, than two men risk the crossing of
the Straits of Dover. Instantly mankind cries: "We are masters of the
roads through the air, we are the inhabitants of the sky!"
At the period in which the action of our story happens to be laid, this
noble beginning of the new ideas had found its formula in the word
_perfectibility._ It was Condorcet who eloquently outlined the doctrine,
and taking no account of human weakness, predicted for it a boundless
destiny. He believed in infinity so absolutely that he hoped to find the
secret of the destruction of death, and everybody who used his mind,
everybody who read was beginning to believe with him in the indefinite
prolongation of physical life. Parmentier believed moreover that he
could banish forever the spectre of famine by acclimatizing the potato.
Mesmer believed that he had discovered a mysterious agent, the source of
all marvels. Saint-Martin proclaimed the rehabilitation of the human
soul and illumined the terrors of the old-fashioned dogmas with the
dogma of infinite light. Cagliostro pretended to revive ancient magic in
a natural and comprehensible way; in a word the vertigo of the future
had set every brain in a whirl, from the most prosaic to the most
romantic, and, at the height of that intense excitement, the present was
a trifling obstacle which no one deigned to notice. The old monarchy,
the unbending clergy, were still on their feet, striving to retain their
crumbling power; but liberty had been inaugurated in America, and France
felt that her day was at hand. She had no thought of bloodshed; pleasant
chimeras exclude ideas of revenge; on the eve of the terrible storm
men's minds were making holiday, and an indescribable feverish grasping
for the ideal paved the way for the magnificent outburst of '89.
Julien was full of that faith and determination which seems to descend
to earth providentially at the moment fixed for mighty struggles; but
with it all there was a certain calmness due to the direction, the habit
and the temperament of his thought. There was a certain philosophical
mysticism, not in the stage of discussion but in the stage of instinct,
and a sort of craving to love. If he had not loved a woman, he would
have loved liberty to fanaticism. Love consecrated him to
self-sacrifice. As soon as Julie's image filled his heart, he no longer
thought of himself except as a force which might serve to protect Julie.
Did he entertain the idea that she could or would be likely to belong to
him? Yes, he undoubtedly did, a confused idea, sometimes imperious, but
valiantly combated. He had no prejudices; he was not, like his uncle
Antoine, dazzled by rank, title and show; he knew that Julie was born in
modest station and that her fortune was much impaired. Moreover, he felt
that he was her equal, for he was one of those men of the third estate,
who, being filled with a legitimate and tenacious pride, were beginning
to say to one another: "The third estate is everything," just as they
said later: "The people are everything," and just as they will say some
day: "Everyone is everything," denying no kind of nobility, whether due
to the sword, the toga, the factory or the plough. Thus Julien did not
look upon the Comtesse d'Estrelle as a woman placed above him by
circumstances, but by personal merit. That merit he exaggerated possibly
in his own mind; it is the privilege of love to tend constantly toward
the loftier regions of the soul, and to believe that it is summoned to
the conquest of divinities. So that in his passion admirable humility
was combined with boundless pride.
"I am not worthy of such a woman," he said to himself; "I must become
so, and when, by dint of patience, unselfishness, self-denial and
respect, I have succeeded--why, then perhaps I shall feel that I have
the right to say to her: 'Love me.'"
But he sometimes wondered if that day would come before the unforeseen
events of the future had disposed of Julie's fate; then he would say to
himself:
"Very well; I shall possess her esteem, perhaps her friendship, and the
time I shall have devoted to governing myself with dignity will not be
wasted."
Madame Thierry was surprised and overjoyed therefore to find that his
cheerfulness and all the symptoms of physical and moral well-being
reappeared suddenly, on the very day of this momentous episode.
"My friend," she said to Marcel when they were alone for a moment, "I
dare not tell you what is passing through my mind; but he has such a
happy look! _Mon Dieu!_ do you believe it is possible?"
"What?" said Marcel. "Oh! yes, you are speaking of his visit to Madame
d'Estrelle! Well, such things have been known, my dear aunt; he is
good-looking enough and agreeable enough to please a great lady; but she
is ruined and can extricate herself only by a wealthy marriage, which it
is our duty to desire for her, on the condition that the man is not too
old. I do not believe she is as bold and courageous as you were, and,
moreover, the plan that succeeded with you is generally ruinous; a great
passion is a number that wins only once in a hundred thousand times in
the lottery of destiny! Let us not wish that for Julien and for _her!_"
"No, I don't wish it; it is too dangerous, as you say; but if she does
take a fancy to him, what will happen?"
"I have no idea; but she is virtuous and he is an honorable man; they
will both suffer. It would be better to separate them if possible."
"To be sure! that is what I said to you in the beginning. But what a
pity! They are both so handsome, so young and so good! Ah! fate is very
unjust sometimes! If my poor husband had left Julien the fortune we once
had, he might have been a suitable match for her, as she is poor and
without family pride! Alas! may God forgive me! this is the first time I
ever blamed my André. Let us say no more about it, Marcel, let us say
no more about it!"
"We must think about it, none the less," replied the solicitor, "and not
let Julien's heart burn too fiercely. To-day, it is fireworks, because
he probably has some hope; but to-morrow it may be a conflagration."
"What shall we do, Marcel?"
"I don't know. I would like to be able to confess Madame d'Estrelle, and
Uncle Antoine above all, for I am not deceived by his philosophy, and I
am afraid--"
"What are you afraid of?"
"Everything. Should we not be prepared for everything with him?"
Madame d'Estrelle had been almost made ill by all the excitement of the
day. Julien's visit had proved to be the finishing touch; but, as soon
as he left her, the sort of fever which Monsieur Antoine's performance
had caused gave place to a not unpleasant feeling of lassitude.
"I have a friend," she said to herself, "a most agreeable friend, that
is certain, though the whole world should make sport of me for trusting
so implicitly in the word of a man whom I did not know a few hours ago;
but should I accept this zealous friendship? is it not dangerous to him
and to me? To be sure, he did not ask me to accept it. He went away like
a man who is dependent on nobody and who loves without permission. Since
he says that he has no hope, has he not a right to love? And what could
I do to prevent him?"
Julie was perfectly well aware, in her inmost conscience, that she
should not have received Julien after Madame Thierry's revelation
concerning his feeling for her.
"After all," she said, "why did I receive him, when my first impulse was
to send him that simple yet conclusive message: 'There is no reply!'
That would have rid me of uncle and nephew at one stroke. But did the
nephew deserve to be humiliated? Did he not come simply to rescue his
honor from a detestable snare laid by his uncle? Had he not the right to
say to me thereupon all that he did say to me, and was I offended by
what he took the liberty of adding on his own account, although it was
perhaps a little too sentimental? ought I to have been offended? It is
of no use for me to ask the question, I cannot answer it. He offered
himself, he gave himself to me, without asking for anything. He made me
a present of his heart and his life, whether I would or not. He did not
speak to me like a lover, no, indeed! but like a slave and a master at
once. All this is very strange, and my brain is in a whirl. I do not
know what it is that I feel for him. The only thing that is certain is
that I believe in him."
It seemed to Julie as well as to Madame Thierry and Marcel that the
morrow of that strange day would probably be fraught with important
events. In vain did they question themselves concerning Monsieur
Antoine's wrath: to their great amazement neither the morrow nor the
days following brought about any change in their respective situations.
The horticulturist went into the country, no one knew where. There was
no place for him to go, at least within the knowledge of Marcel, who
thought that he knew all his business, but who really knew only a part
of it. When he was thoroughly convinced of his uncle's absence, he
became anxious about him; but he was shown orders written by his own
hand, which his head gardener received each morning, detailing minutely
the nature and extent of the care to be bestowed on certain delicate
plants. These horticultural bulletins were undated and without stamps.
They were brought by the ex-armorer's valet, an old sailor, who was the
slave of his orders, obedient as a negro, dumb as an old stump.
"Well!" said Marcel to Madame Thierry, "he is in the sulks, that is
certain; or else he is ashamed of his madness and has gone into hiding
for a little time. Let us hope that he will return cured of his
matrimoniomania, and that he will consider his honor involved in
carrying out a certain bargain relative to this pavilion. You need the
indemnity, and I do not conceal from you that Madame d'Estrelle is
greatly in need of the promised amount. I don't know what vicious insect
is pricking her creditors, but suddenly they all begin to display the
most extraordinary impatience and anxiety. They go so far as to threaten
to transfer their claims to one principal creditor, who would surely
speculate on my client's embarrassment, and that is the worst thing that
could possibly happen."
"I am not at all easy in my mind," he said two days later to Madame
d'Estrelle, who had just been to visit her father-in-law, who was ill;
"I am afraid monsieur le marquis may die unexpectedly before he has
settled up your affairs."
"I place no reliance on his good-will toward me," replied Julie; "but I
cannot believe that he will leave me at the mercy of the count's
creditors, when only a few last steps are needed to settle with them. Of
course we must expect the childish fear of robbing himself which always
haunts selfish old men; but after him----"
"After him?" echoed Marcel. "The devil is after him, I mean at his
heels. His wife is a good-for-nothing; I am afraid of her; she doesn't
love you, and she is nothing to you, since your husband was not her
son."
"_Mon Dieu!_ you look at the dark side of everything, my dear solicitor!
The marquis is neither very old nor very ill. He must have made his
will. The marchioness is very pious, and what she would not do from
affection, she will do as a matter of duty. Do not you discourage me,
who have always encouraged me."
"I should not be discouraged myself if I could put my hand on my
singular old uncle! Let him buy the pavilion and pay for it, and that
gives us two or three months' respite. We shall have time to sell the
little farm in the Beauvoisis or make it over to the creditors at an
agreed price, otherwise we shall be brutally sold out and lose a hundred
per cent. of these poor scraps, which are of some value to-day!"
Julie, who, at other times, had been much distressed concerning her
situation, had reached that stage of lassitude which takes the place of
courage. Her philosophy surprised and irritated Marcel.
"Deuce take me!" he whispered to Julien's mother, "one would say that
she asks nothing better now than to be turned into the street!"
Was that, in truth, Madame d'Estrelle's secret thought? Did she say to
herself that, being poor, and abandoned by her husband's family, she no
longer owed so much consideration to the name she bore, and that she
could disappear from the world's stage to live as she chose and marry
according to her inclination?
Yes and no. At times she dreamed again that dream of a happiness
hitherto unknown, which had come to her like a fascinating vision in
Julien's studio. At other times she became the Comtesse d'Estrelle once
more, and asked herself in dismay how she could break with all her
surroundings and her habits, and whether she could endure blame and
contempt, after having been so loudly praised and so respected up to
that day by a limited but select circle of persons highly considered in
society.
It is well known that period was marked by a violent and determined
reaction in certain aristocratic circles against the invasion of the
democracy. Perhaps no other period in history presents such strange
contrasts. On the one hand public opinion, queen of the new world,
proclaimed the doctrines of equality, contempt for social distinctions,
the philosophy of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Voltaire and Diderot; on the
other, the ruling powers, terrified by a progress which they dared not
oppose, attempted a tardy resistance which was destined to hurl them
into the abyss; but to one whose horizon was narrow, to whom the morrow
was not revealed, that resistance assumed formidable proportions, and a
weak and gentle woman like Madame d'Estrelle was certain to be alarmed
by it. Like all of her caste she fancied that she could read the destiny
of France in the conduct of the court; and there were times when the
king, in dire dismay, tried to resuscitate the monarchy of Louis XIV.;
distressing and vain efforts, which, however, when looked at from a
certain point of view, seemed serious enough to irritate the people and
to increase the arrogance of the privileged classes. The court and city
had acclaimed Voltaire's triumph; on the morrow of that triumph the
clergy refused him a tomb. Mirabeau had written a masterpiece against
the arbitrary use of _lettres de cachet._ The king had said of
Beaumarchais: "If his play--_the Marriage of Figaro_--is acted, we may
as well destroy the Bastille!" The third estate grew in enlightenment,
in ambition, in real worth; the court reëstablished privileges in the
army as well as among the clergy, and decided--which Cardinal de
Richelieu would not have dared to do--that, in order to be a military
officer or a prelate, an applicant must prove four generations of noble
blood. The American Constitution had just proclaimed the principles of
Jean-Jacques's _Social Contract_; Washington and Lafayette were dreaming
of the enfranchisement of the slaves; the French ministry granted
additional facilities to the slave trade; the lower clergy became more
democratic from day to day; the Sorbonne tried to pick a quarrel with
Buffon, and the upper clergy demanded a new law to _repress the art of
writing_; public opinion was aroused against capital punishment, the
_preliminary torture_ was still in use. The queen had protected
Beaumarchais; Raynal was forced to go into exile.
These attempts at reaction in the midst of the onward rush of the age
found an echo in the religious coteries; and the greater nobility,
generally speaking, upbraided those of its members who had allowed
themselves to be fascinated by the seductions of the new philosophy. In
the conservative salons, the king and queen were overwhelmed with
maledictions and sarcasm when they seemed inclined to abandon the theory
of the royal _good pleasure._ The aristocrats clung to that theory, they
believed that everything was safe when they added a stone to the
powerless dam erected to stem the revolutionary spirit, and yet no one
suspected the swift motion of the flood nor the imminence of the
inundation. Everything was translated into bitter satire, ballads and
caricatures. They pretended to despise the danger to the point of
laughing pityingly at it.
Those persons who were of Julie's immediate circle were of the same mild
and timid disposition to which her own mild timidity naturally inclined
her; but outside of that little circle, where extravagance in any form
was frowned upon, she felt the pressure of a large and more formidable
circle, that of the Comte d'Estrelle's family, an arrogant family,
irritated by her dumb resistance to absolute opinions; and again,
outside of that dreaded circle, which she carefully avoided, there was a
still more powerful and threatening one, that of the Marquis
d'Estrelle's second wife. That circle, composed exclusively of bigots,
opposed to all progress, bitterly contemptuous of philosophers, openly
hostile to the omnipotent Voltaire himself, permeated with all the
prejudices of birth, fiercely tenacious of its alleged right, was to
Julie a subject of terror, puerile perhaps but profound and increasing.
The marchioness was well-known to be a covetous, evil-minded,
dishonorable woman, and we have seen that the Baronne d'Ancourt, despite
her own retrograde ideas, spoke of her, as well as of her environment,
with great aversion. Julie was very slightly acquainted with her, and
strove to believe that she was sincere in her piety; but she was afraid
of her, and, when she questioned herself concerning the state of dread
and depression in which she was living, she saw before her the
disgusting spectre of that gaunt person, with the greenish eye and
pitiless tongue. At such times, from very excess of terror, she tried to
apologize for her when she spoke of her, or to impose silence on those
of her friends who ventured to call her a harpy or a bird of evil omen.
Naturally poor Julie abhorred the opinions of the marchioness and her
circle; but she had not had enough experience, she did not sufficiently
appreciate the general tendency of her time to realize the utter
puerility of the persecutions she would have had to undergo if she had
resolved to live in accordance with the dictates of her heart and her
conscience. In that cage of prejudice she was like a bird which thinks
that the world has formed itself into a cage about him, and which no
longer understands the breath of the wind among the leaves and the
flight of other birds through space.
"There may be happy people," she said to herself, "but how far away they
are. And how can I join them?"
In like manner, on the eve of a terrible revolution, the prisoners of
the past wept over their chains and believed that they were riveted upon
them for all eternity. Nevertheless Julie, the greater part of the time,
forgot this whole matter of external facts to lose herself in vague
contemplations and in secret preoccupations of a new sort. We shall soon
see what the subject of them was, and how great difficulty that generous
but timid heart had in coming to terms with itself.
A fortnight had passed since the disaster to the _Antonia_, and Madame
d'Estrelle had neither seen nor heard of Julien. She might have believed
that he had never existed and that their two interviews were a dream.
Madame Thierry had not set foot in the garden, and when Julie, surprised
at her continued absence, sent to inquire for her, the answer was that
she was a little indisposed--nothing alarming--but forced to keep her
room.
Marcel, when she questioned him, evaded her questions, confirmed the
statement as to his aunt's slight indisposition, but went into no
details. Julie dared not insist; she divined that her neighbor was
determined to break off every sort of relation, every pretext for
communication, even indirect, between her and Julien.
At last, one morning, Madame Thierry reappeared, when Julie least
expected her. In reply to Julie's reserved and timid questions, she said
effusively:
"My dear countess, you must forgive me for a bad dream I had, which has
vanished now. I judged too hastily, I was foolishly alarmed, and I
frightened you with my chimeras. I thought that my son had the
presumption to love you, I was so sure of it that it has taken this past
fortnight to disabuse me of the idea. So forget what I said to you and
give back to my poor child the esteem which he has never ceased to
deserve. He does not raise his eyes or his thoughts to you. He venerates
you as he ought, and if you should need someone to die for you, he would
grasp the opportunity; but there is no romantic passion in his devotion,
simply fervent and heartfelt gratitude. He has sworn to me that it is
so. I doubted his word at first, but I was wrong. I have watched him; I
have done better than that, I have played the spy for a fortnight, and
now I am reassured. He eats, he sleeps, he talks, he goes in and out,
and works cheerily; in a word, he is not in love: he does not try to see
you, he speaks of you with tranquil admiration, he does not seem to
desire an opportunity to attract your eyes, nor will he ever seek it.
Forgive my folly, and love me as before."
Julie accepted this perfectly sincere declaration of Madame Thierry with
gracious satisfaction. They talked of something else and remained
together an hour; then they parted, congratulating each other on having
no further subject of discomfort, and on being able to renew their
relations without agitation or danger to anyone.
How did it happen that when she was alone once more, Julie was
overwhelmed by an inexplicable depression? She sought the cause to no
purpose, and vented her spleen on the next visitors who came. Her old
friend Madame Desmorges seemed intolerably loquacious; the old Duc de
Quesnoy as dull and tiresome as a blacksmith's hammer; her cousin,
Madame la Présidente Boursault, prudish and hypocritical; the
abbé--there was always an abbe in every private circle in those
days--conceited and insipid. And, when Camille came to dress her hair at
the usual hour, she pettishly dismissed her, saying:
"What is the use?"
Then she recalled her, and, impelled by a sudden caprice, asked her if
the usual period for semi-mourning had not expired within three days.
"Why, yes, madame," said Camille, "it is all over! and madame la
comtesse does very wrong not to stop wearing it. If she continues to
wear it, it will have a very bad effect."
"How so, Camille?"
"People will say that madame is prolonging her grief for economy, to
wear out her gray gowns."
"That is most excellent reasoning, my dear, and I bow to it. Bring me a
pink dress at once."
"Pink? No, madame, it is too soon for that. People would say that madame
wore mourning reluctantly, and that she changed her mind with her dress.
Madame should wear a pretty dress of royal blue with white flowers."
"Very good! But haven't all my dresses gone out of style in the two
years I have been in mourning?"
"No, madame, for I have looked after them! I have cut the sleeves over
and changed the trimming on the waist. With bows of white satin and a
lace head-dress, madame will be as stylish as possible."
"But why make me beautiful, Camille, when I do not expect anybody?"
"Has madame said that she was not at home?"
"No; but you remind me that I do not wish to receive any visitors."