for a time, an element of excitement from which she had the whole year
to recover. The frights that the child caused her with her audacious
exploits in leaping and riding, the passionate outbreaks of that
untamed nature, made the visit both a delight and a terrible trial to
her,--a delight, because she worshipped Felicia, the only domestic tie
left the poor old salamander, retired after thirty years of _battus_ in
the glare of the footlights; a trial, because the demon pitilessly
pillaged the ex-dancer's apartments, which were as dainty and neat and
sweet-smelling as her dressing-room at the Opéra, and embellished with
a museum of souvenirs dated from all the theatres in the world.
Constance Crenmitz was the sole feminine element in Felicia's
childhood. Frivolous, shallow, having all her life kept her mind
enveloped in pink swaddling-clothes, she had at all events a dainty
knack at housekeeping, and agile fingers clever at sewing,
embroidering, arranging furniture, and leaving the trace of their deft,
painstaking touch in every corner of a room. She alone undertook to
train that wild young plant, and to awaken with care the womanly
instincts in that strange creature, on whose figure cloaks and furs,
all the elegant inventions of fashion, fell in folds too stiff, or
performed other strange antics.
It was the dancer again--surely the little Ruys must not be
abandoned--who, triumphing over the paternal selfishness, compelled the
sculptor to assent to a necessary separation, when Felicia was twelve
or thirteen years old; furthermore, she assumed the responsibility of
finding a suitable boarding school, and purposely selected a very rich
but very bourgeois establishment, pleasantly situated in a
sparsely-settled faubourg, in a huge old-fashioned mansion, surrounded
by high walls and tall trees,--a sort of convent, minus the restraint
and contempt for serious studies.
Indeed, a great deal of hard work was done at Madame Belin's
establishment, with no opportunities to go out except on great
festivals, and no communication with the outside world except a visit
from one's relatives on Thursday, in a little garden of flowering
shrubs, or in the vast parlor with the carved and gilded panels above
the doors. Felicia's first appearance in that almost monastic
institution caused considerable commotion; her costume, selected by the
Austrian ballet-dancer, her curly hair falling to the waist, her
ungainly, boyish bearing, gave rise to some ill-natured remarks; but
she was a Parisian and readily adapted herself to all situations, to
all localities. In a few days she wore more gracefully than any of the
others the little black apron, to which the most coquettish attached
their watches, the straight skirt--a stern and cruel requirement at
that period, when the prevailing fashion enlarged the circumference of
woman with an infinite number of ruffles and flounces--and the
prescribed arrangement of the hair, in two braids fastened together
well down on the neck, after the fashion of Roman peasants.
Strangely enough, the assiduous work of the classes, their tranquil
regularity, suited Felicia's nature, all intelligence and animation, in
which a taste for study was enlivened by an overflow of childish
spirits in the hours of recreation. Every one loved her. Among those
children of great manufacturers, Parisian notaries and gentleman-farmers,
a substantial little world by themselves, somewhat inclined to
stiffness and formality, the well-known name of old Ruys, and the
respect which is universally manifested in Paris for a high reputation
as an artist, gave to Felicia a position apart from the rest and
greatly envied; a position made even more brilliant by her success in
her studies, by a genuine talent for drawing, and by her beauty, that
element of superiority which produces its effect even upon very young
girls.
In the purer atmosphere of the boarding-school, she felt the keenest
pleasure in making herself womanly, in resuming her true sex, in
learning order, regularity, in a different sense from that inculcated
by the amiable dancer, whose kisses always retained a taste of rouge,
and whose embraces always left an impression of unnaturally round arms.
Père Ruys was enchanted, every time that he went to see his daughter,
to find her more of a young lady, able to enter and walk about and
leave a room with the pretty courtesy that made all of Madame Belin's
boarders long for the _frou-frou_ of a long train.
At first he came often, then, as he lacked time for all the commissions
accepted and undertaken, the advances upon which helped to pay for the
disorder and heedlessness of his life, he was seen less frequently in
the parlor. At last disease took a hand. Brought to earth by hopeless
anæmia, for weeks he did not leave the house, nor work. He insisted
upon seeing his daughter; and from the peaceful, health-giving shadow
of the boarding-school Felicia returned to her father's studio, still
haunted by the same cronies, the parasites that cling to every
celebrity, among whom sickness had introduced a new figure in the
person of Dr. Jenkins.
That handsome, open face, the air of frankness and serenity diffused
over the whole person of that already well known physician, who talked
of his art so freely, yet performed miraculous cures, and his assiduous
attentions to her father, made a deep impression on the girl. Jenkins
soon became the friend, the confidant, a vigilant and gentle guardian.
Sometimes in the studio, when some one--the father himself most
frequently--made a too equivocal remark or a ribald jest, the Irishman
would frown and make a little noise with his lips, or else would divert
Felicia's attention. He often took her to pass the day with Madame
Jenkins, exerting himself to prevent her from becoming once more the
wild creature of the ante-boarding school days, or indeed the something
worse than that which she threatened to become, in the moral
abandonment, the saddest of all forms of abandonment, in which she was
left.
But the girl had a more powerful protector than the irreproachable but
worldly example of the fair Madame Jenkins: the art which she adored,
the enthusiasm it aroused in her essentially open nature, the sentiment
of beauty, of truth, which passed from her thoughtful brain, teeming
with ideas, into her fingers with a little quiver of the nerves, a
longing to see the thing done, the image realized. All day she worked
at her sculpture, gave shape to her reveries, with the happy tact of
instinct-guided youth, which imparts so much charm to first works; that
prevented her from regretting too keenly the austere régime of the
Belin institution, which was as perfect a safeguard and as light as the
veil of a novice who has not taken her vows; and it also shielded her
from perilous conversations to which in her one absorbing preoccupation
she paid no heed.
Ruys was proud of the talent springing up by his side. As he grew
weaker from day to day, having already reached the stage at which the
artist regrets his vanishing powers, he followed Felicia's progress as
a consolation for the close of his own career. The modelling-tool,
which trembled in his hand, was seized at his side with virile firmness
and self-assurance, tempered by all of the innate refinement of her
being that a woman can apply to the realization of her ideal of an art.
A curious sensation is that twofold paternity, that survival of genius,
which abandons the one who is going away to pass into the one who is
coming, like the lovely domestic birds which, on the eve of a death,
desert the threatened roof for a more cheerful dwelling.
In the last days of her father's life, Felicia--a great artist, and
still a child--did half of her father's work for him, and nothing could
be more touching than that collaboration of the father and daughter, in
the same studio, sculptors of the same group. Things did not always run
smoothly. Although she was her father's pupil, Felicia's individuality
was already inclined to rebel against any arbitrary guidance. She had
the audacity of beginners, the presentiment of a great future felt only
by youthful geniuses, and, in opposition to the romantic traditions of
Sébastien Ruys, a tendency toward modern realism, a feeling that she
must plant that glorious old flag upon some new monument.
Then there would be terrible scenes, disputes from which the father
would come forth vanquished, annihilated by his daughter's logic,
amazed at the rapid progress children make on the highroads, while
their elders, who have opened the gates for them, remain stationary at
the point of departure. When she was working for him Felicia yielded
more readily; but concerning her own work she was intractable. For
instance, the _Joueur de Boules_, her first exhibited work, which
made such a tremendous hit at the Salon of 1862, was the occasion of
violent disputes between the two artists, of such fierce controversy
that Jenkins had to intervene and to superintend the removal of the
figure, which Ruys had threatened to break.
Aside from these little dramas, which had no effect upon the love of
their hearts, those two worshipped each other, with the presentiment
and, as the days passed, the cruel certainty of an impending
separation; when suddenly there came a horrible episode in Felicia's
life. One day Jenkins took her home to dinner with him, as he often
did. Madame Jenkins and her son were away for two days; but the
doctor's years, his semi-paternal intimacy, justified him in inviting
to his house, even in his wife's absence, a girl whose fifteen years,
the fifteen years of an Eastern Jewess resplendent with premature
beauty, left her still almost a child.
The dinner was very lively, Jenkins cordial and agreeable as always.
Then they went into the doctor's office; and suddenly, as they sat on
the divan, talking in the most intimate and friendly way concerning her
father, his health and their joint work, Felicia had a feeling as of
the cold blast from an abyss between herself and that man, followed by
the brutal embrace of a satyr's claw. She saw a Jenkins totally unknown
to her, wild-eyed, stammering, with brutish laugh and insulting hands.
In the surprise, the unexpectedness of that outbreak of the animal
instinct, any other than Felicia, any child of her years, but genuinely
innocent, would have been lost. The thing that saved her, poor child,
was her knowledge. She had heard so many stories at her father's table!
And then her art, her life at the studio. She was no _ingénue_. She at
once understood what that embrace meant, she squirmed and struggled,
then, finding that she was not strong enough, screamed. He was
frightened, released her, and suddenly she found herself on her feet,
free, with the man at her knees, weeping and imploring forgiveness. He
had yielded to an attack of frenzy. She was so lovely, he loved her so
dearly. He had struggled for months. But now it was all over--never
again, oh! never again. He would not even touch the hem of her dress.
She did not reply, but tremblingly rearranged her hair and her clothes
with frenzied fingers. Go, she must go at once, alone. He sent a
servant with her, and whispered, as she entered the carriage: "Above
all things, not a word of this at home. It would kill your father." He
knew her so well, he was so sure of closing her mouth by that thought,
the villain, that he came the next day as if nothing had happened,
effusive as always and with the same ingenuous face. She never did
mention the incident to her father or to anybody else. But from that
day a change took place in her, as if the springs of her pride were
relaxed. She became capricious, had fits of lassitude, a curl of
disgust in her smile, and sometimes she yielded to sudden outbursts of
wrath against her father, and cast scornful glances upon him, rebuking
him for his failure to watch over her.
"What is the matter with her?" Père Ruys would ask; and Jenkins, with
the authority of a physician, would attribute it to her age and a
physical trouble. He himself avoided speaking to the girl, relying upon
time to efface the sinister impression, and not despairing of obtaining
what he desired, for he desired more eagerly than ever, being in the
grasp of the insane passion of a man of forty-seven, the incurable
passion of maturity; and that was the hypocrite's punishment. His
daughter's strange state caused the sculptor genuine distress; but it
was of brief duration. Ruys suddenly expired, fell to pieces all at
once, like all those whom Jenkins attended. His last words were:
"Jenkins, I place my daughter in your care."
The words were so ironical in all their mournfulness that Jenkins, who
was present at the last, could not avoid turning pale.
Felicia was even more stupefied than sorrowful. To the feeling of
amazement at death, which she had never seen before, and which appeared
in a guise so dear to her, was added the feeling of a terrible
loneliness surrounded by darkness and perils.
Several friends of the sculptor assembled in a family council to
deliberate concerning the future of the unfortunate, penniless orphan.
They had found fifty francs in the catch-all in which Sébastien kept
his money on a little commode in the studio, well known to his needy
friends, who had recourse to it without scruple. No other patrimony, in
cash at all events; only a most superb collection of artistic objects
and curios, a few valuable pictures and some scattered outstanding
claims hardly sufficient to cover his innumerable debts. They talked of
a sale at auction. Felicia, on being consulted, replied that it was a
matter of indifference to her whether they sold all or none, but that
she begged them, for God's sake, to leave her in peace.
The sale did not take place, however, thanks to the godmother, the
excellent Crenmitz, who suddenly made her appearance, as tranquil and
gentle as always:
"Don't listen to them, my child, sell nothing. Your old Constance has
fifteen thousand francs a year which were intended for you. You shall
have the benefit of them now, that's all. We will live together here. I
will not be in the way, you will see. You can work at your sculpture,
while I keep the house. Does that suit you?"
It was said so affectionately, in the childish accent of foreigners
expressing themselves in French, that the girl was deeply moved. Her
stony heart opened, a burning flood poured from her eyes and she threw
herself, buried herself in the ex-dancer's arms: "Oh! godmother, how
good you are! Yes, yes; don't leave me again--stay with me always. Life
frightens and disgusts me. I see so much hypocrisy and lying!" And when
the old woman had made herself a silky, embroidered nest in the house,
which resembled a traveller's camp filled with the treasures of all
lands, those two widely different natures took up their life together.
It was no small sacrifice that Constance had made to the little demon,
to leave her retreat at Fontainebleau for Paris, which she held in
horror. From the day when the ballet-dancer, once famous for her
extravagant caprices, who squandered princely fortunes between her five
parted fingers, had descended from the realm of apotheoses with a last
remnant of their dazzling glare still lingering in her eyes, and had
tried to resume the life of ordinary mortals, to administer her little
income and her modest household, she had been subjected to a multitude
of unblushing attempts at extortion and schemes which were readily
successful in view of the ignorance of that poor butterfly, who was
afraid of reality and constantly coming in contact with all its unknown
difficulties. In Felicia's house the responsibility became far more
serious, because of the extravagant methods long ago inaugurated by the
father and continued by the daughter, both artists having the utmost
contempt for economy. She had other difficulties, too, to overcome. She
could not endure the studio, with its permanent odor of tobacco smoke,
with the cloud, impenetrable to her, in which artistic discussions and
ideas, expressed in their baldest form, were confounded in vague eddies
of glowing vapor which invariably gave her the sick headache. The
_blague_ was especially terrifying to her. Being a foreigner, a former
divinity of the ballet greenroom, fed upon superannuated compliments,
gallantries _à la Dorat_ she was unable to understand it, and was
dismayed at the wild exaggerations, the paradoxes of those Parisians
whose wits were sharpened by the liberty of the studio.
She whose wit had consisted entirely in the agility of her feet was
awed by her new surroundings and relegated to the position of a simple
companion; and to see that amiable old creature, silent and smiling,
sitting in the bright light of the rounded window, her knitting on her
knees, like one of Chardin's bourgeoises, or walking quickly up the
long Rue de Chaillot where the nearest market was situated, with her
cook at her side, one would never have dreamed that the worthy woman
had once held kings, princes, all the susceptible portion of the
nobility and the world of finance, subject to the whim of her toes and
her gauze skirts.
Paris is full of these extinct stars which have fallen back into the
crowd.
Some of these celebrities, these conquerors of a former time, retain a
gnawing rage in their hearts; others, on the contrary, dwell blissfully
upon the past, ruminate in ineffable content all their glorious, bygone
joys, seeking only repose, silence and obscurity, wherein they may
remember and meditate, so that, when they die, we are amazed to learn
that they were still living.
Constance Crenmitz was one of those happy mortals. But what a strange
artists' household was that of those two women, equally childlike,
contributing to the common stock inexperience and ambition, the
tranquillity of an accomplished destiny and the feverish activity of a
life in its prime, all the differences indeed that were indicated by
the contrast between that blonde, white as a withered rose, who seemed
to be dressed, beneath her fair complexion, in a remnant of Bengal
fire, and that brunette, with the regular features, who almost
invariably enveloped her beauty in dark stuffs, simply made, as if with
a semblance of masculinity.
Unforeseen emergencies, caprice, ignorance of even the most trivial
things, led to extreme confusion in the management of the household,
from which they were sometimes unable to extricate themselves except by
enforced privations, by dismissing servants, by reforms laughable in
their exaggeration. During one of those crises Jenkins made delicate,
carefully veiled offers of assistance which were repelled with scorn by
Felicia.
"It isn't right," said Constance, "to be so rude to that poor doctor.
After all, there was nothing insulting in what he said. An old friend
of your father's."
"That man, anybody's friend! Oh! what a superb Tartuffe!"
And Felicia, hardly able to contain herself, twisted her wrath into
irony, mimicked Jenkins, the affected gestures, the hand on the heart;
then, puffing out her cheeks, said in a hoarse, whistling voice, full
of false effusiveness:
"We must be kind, we must be humane. To do good without hope of
reward!--that is the secret."
Constance laughed, in spite of herself, till the tears ran down her
cheeks, the resemblance was so perfect.
"Never mind, you were too harsh--you will end by driving him away."
"Oh! indeed!" said a shake of the girl's head.
In truth, he continued to come to the house, always affable and sweet,
dissembling his passion, which was visible only when he became jealous
of new-comers, overwhelming with attentions the ex-ballet-dancer, to
whom his pleasant manners were gratifying in spite of everything, and
who recognized in him a man of her own time, of the time when men paid
their respects to women by kissing their hand, with a complimentary
remark as to their appearance.
* * *
One morning, Jenkins, having looked in during his round of visits,
found Constance alone and unoccupied in the reception room.
"I am mounting guard, Doctor, as you see," she said calmly.
"How does that happen?"
"Why, Felicia's at work. She doesn't want to be disturbed and the
servants are so stupid. I am carrying out her orders myself."
Then, as she saw the Irishman walk toward the studio, she added:
"No, no, don't go there. She gave me strict orders not to let any one
go in."
"Very good, but I--"
"I beg you not--you will get me a scolding."
Jenkins was about to withdraw, when a peal of laughter from Felicia
reached their ears through the portière and made him raise his head.
"So she isn't alone?"
"No. The Nabob is with her. They are having a sitting--for the bust."
"But why this mystery? It's very strange."
He strode back and forth, raging inwardly, but holding himself back.
At last he broke out.
It was improper beyond expression to allow a girl to be closeted in
that way with a man.
He was astonished that so serious-minded, so devout a person as
Constance--What did it look like?
The old lady gazed at him in stupefaction. As if Felicia were like
other girls! And then, what danger could there be with the Nabob, such
a serious man and so ugly? Moreover, Jenkins ought to know well enough
that Felicia never consulted anybody, that she did only what she chose.
"No, no, it's impossible; I cannot allow this," exclaimed the Irishman.
And, paying no further heed to the dancer, who threw up her arms to
call heaven to witness what was taking place, he walked toward the
studio; but, instead of entering at once, he opened the door gently and
raised a corner of the hanging, so that a part of the room, just that
part where the Nabob was posing, was visible to him, although at a
considerable distance.
Jansoulet was seated, without a cravat, with his waistcoat thrown open,
talking excitedly, in an undertone. Felicia answered in laughing
whispers. The sitting was very animated. Then there was a pause, a
rustling of skirts, and the artist, going up to her model, turned his
linen collar back all the way around, with a familiar gesture, letting
her hand run lightly over the tanned skin.
That Ethiopian face, in which the muscles quivered with the
intoxication of supreme content, with its great eyelids lowered like
those of a sleeping beast being tickled with a straw, the bold outline
of the girl as she leaned over that outlandish face to verify its
proportions, and then a violent, irresistible gesture, seizing the
slender hand as it passed and pressing it to two thick, trembling
lips,--Jenkins saw all this in a red glare.
The noise that he made in entering caused the two to resume their
respective positions, and in the bright light which dazzled his prying,
catlike eyes, he saw the girl standing before him, indignant,
dumfounded: "What is this? Who has dared?" and the Nabob on his
platform, with his collar turned back, petrified, monumental.
Jenkins, somewhat abashed, dismayed by his own audacity, stammered some
words of apology. He had something very urgent to say to M. Jansoulet,
very important information which could not be delayed. He knew from a
reliable source that there would be a distribution of crosses on March
16th. The Nabob's face, momentarily contracted, at once relaxed.
"Ah! really?"
He abandoned his pose. The matter was well worth considering, deuce
take it! M. de La Perrière, one of the Empress's secretaries, had been
directed by her to visit the shelter of Bethlehem. Jenkins had come to
take the Nabob to the secretary's office at the Tuileries and make
inquiries. That visit to Bethlehem meant a cross for him.
"Come, let us be off; I am with you, my dear doctor."
He bore Jenkins no ill-will for disturbing him, and he feverishly tied
his cravat, forgetting under the stress of his new emotion the
agitation of a moment before, for with him ambition took precedence of
everything.
While the two men talked together in undertones, Felicia, standing
before them, with quivering nostrils and lip curling in scorn, watched
them as if to say: "Well! I am waiting."
Jansoulet apologized for being obliged to interrupt the sitting; but a
visit of the utmost importance--She smiled pityingly.