MADEMOISELLE DE MUSSIDAN.
Paul had not been the only watcher; for at the sound of the carriage
wheels the ancient portress took up her position in the doorway, with
her eyes fixed on the face of the young lady. When the two women had
ascended the stairs, a sudden inspiration seized her, and she went out
and spoke to the cabman.
“Nasty night,” remarked she; “I don’t envy you in such weather as this.”
“You may well say that,” replied the driver; “my feet are like lumps of
ice.”
“Have you come far?”
“Rather; I picked them up in the Champs Elysees, near the Avenue de
Matignon.”
“That is a distance.”
“Yes; and only five sous for drink money. Hang your respectable women!”
“Oh! they are respectable, are they?”
“I’ll answer for that. The other lot are far more open-handed. I know
both of them.”
And with these words and a knowing wink, he touched up his horse and
drove away; and the portress, only half satisfied, went back to her
lodge.
“Why that is the quarter where all the swells live,” murmured she. “I’ll
tip the maid next time, and she’ll let out everything.”
After Paul’s departure, Andre could not remain quiet; for it appeared to
him as if each second was a century. He had thrown open the door of his
studio, and ran to the head of the stairs at every sound.
At last their footsteps really sounded on the steps. The sweetest music
in the world is the rustle of the beloved one’s dress. Leaning over the
banisters, he gazed fondly down. Soon she appeared, and in a short time
had gained the open door of the studio.
“You see, Andre,” said she, extending her hand, “you see that I am true
to my time.”
Pale, and trembling with emotion, Andre pressed the little hand to his
lips.
“Ah! Mademoiselle Sabine, how kind you are! Thanks, a thousand thanks.”
Yes, it was indeed Sabine, the scion of the lordly house of Mussidan,
who had come to visit the poor foundling of the Hotel de Vendome in his
studio, and who thus risked all that was most precious to her in
the world, her honor and her reputation. Yes, regardless of the
conventionalities among which she had been reared, dared to cross that
social abyss which separates the Avenue de Matignon from the Rue de la
Tour d’Auvergne. Cold reason finds no excuse for such a step, but the
heart can easily solve this seeming riddle. Sabine and Andre had been
lovers for more than two years. Their first acquaintance had commenced
at the Chateau de Mussidan. At the end of the summer of 1865, Andre,
whose constant application to work had told upon his health, determined
to take a change, when his master, Jean Lanier, called him, and said,--
“If you wish for a change, and at the same time to earn three or four
hundred francs, now is your time. An architect has written to me, asking
me for a skilled stone carver, to do some work in the country at a
magnificent mansion in the midst of the most superb scenery. Would you
care about undertaking this?”
The proposal was a most acceptable one to Andre, and in a week’s time he
was on his way to his work with a prospect of living for a month in
pure country air. Upon his arrival at the Chateau, he made a thorough
examination of the work with which he had been entrusted. He saw that he
could finish it with perfect ease, for it was only to restore the carved
work on a balcony, which would not take more than a fortnight. He did
not, however, press on the work, for the beautiful scenery enchanted
him.
He made many exquisite sketches, and his health began to return to him.
But there was another reason why he was in no haste to complete his
task, one which he hardly ventured even to confess to himself: he had
caught a glimpse of a young girl in the park of the Chateau who had
caused a new feeling to spring up in his heart. It was Sabine de
Mussidan. The Count, as the season came on, had gone to Germany, the
Countess had flitted away to Luzon, and the daughter was sent to the
dull old country mansion in charge of her old aunt. It was the old, old
story; two young hearts loving with all the truth and energy of their
natures. They had exchanged a few words on their first meeting, and on
the next Sabine went on to the balcony and watched the rapid play of
Andre’s chisel with childish delight. For a long time they conversed,
and Sabine was surprised at the education and refinement of the young
workman. Utterly fresh, and without experience, Sabine could not
understand her new sensations. Andre held, one night, a long converse
with himself, and was at last obliged to confess that he loved her
fondly. He ran the extent of his folly and madness, and recognized the
barrier of birth and wealth that stood between them, and was overwhelmed
with consternation.
The Chateau of Mussidan stands in a very lonely spot, and one of the
roads leading to it passes through a dense forest, and therefore it had
been arranged that Andre was to take his meals in the house. After
a time Sabine began to feel that this isolation was a needless
humiliation.
“Why can’t M. Andre take his meals with us?” asked she of her aunt. “He
is certainly more gentlemanlike than many of those who visit us, and I
think that his conversation would entertain you.”
The old lady was easily persuaded to adopt this suggestion, though at
first it seemed an odd kind of thing to admit a mere working man to her
table; but she was so bored with the loneliness of the place that she
hailed with delight anything that would break its monotony. Andre at
once accepted the proposal, and the old lady would hardly believe her
eyes when her guest entered the room with the dress and manners of a
highbred gentleman. “It is hardly to be believed,” said she, as she was
preparing to go to bed, “that a mere carver of stone should be so like
a gentleman. It seems to me that all distinctions of social rank have
vanished. It is time for me to die, or we are rapidly approaching a
state of anarchy.”
In spite of her prejudices, however, Andre contrived to win the old
lady’s heart, and won a complete victory by painting her portrait in
full gala costume. From that moment he was treated as one of the family,
and, having no fear of a rebuff, was witty and sprightly in his manner.
Once he told the old lady the true story of his life. Sabine was deeply
interested, and marvelled at his energy and endurance, which had won for
him a place on the ladder that leads to future eminence. She saw in
him the realization of all her girlish dreams, and finally confessed
to herself that she loved him. Both her father and mother had their own
pleasures and pursuits, and Sabine was as much alone in the world as
Andre.
The days now fled rapidly by. Buried in this secluded country house,
they were as free as the breeze that played through the trees of the
forest, for the old lady rarely disturbed them. After the morning meal,
she would beg Andre to read the newspaper to her, and fell into a doze
before he had been five minutes at the task. Then the young people
would slip quietly away, as merry as truants from school. They wandered
beneath the shade of the giant oaks, or climbed the rocks that stood
by the river bank. Sometimes, seated in a dilapidated boat, they would
drift down the stream with its flower-bedecked banks. The water was
often almost covered with rushes and water lilies. Two months of
enchantment thus fled past, two months of the intoxications of love,
though the mention of the tender passion never rose to their lips
from their hearts, where it was deeply imbedded. Andre had cast all
reflections regarding the perils of the future to the winds, and only
thanked heaven for the happiness that he was experiencing.
“Am I not too happy?” he would say to himself. “I fear this cannot
last.” And he was right. Anxious to justify his remaining at Mussidan
after his task was completed, Andre determined to add to what he had
already done a masterpiece of modern art, by carving a garland of fruit
and flowers over the old balcony, and every morning he rose with the sun
to proceed with his task.
One morning the valet came to him, saying that the old lady was desirous
of seeing him, and begged him to lose no time, as the business was
urgent. A presentiment of evil came like a chilly blast upon the young
man’s heart. He felt that his brief dream of happiness was at an end,
and he followed the valet as a criminal follows his executioner to the
scaffold.
As he opened the door in which Sabine’s aunt was awaiting him, the old
man whispered,--
“Have a care, sir, have a care. Madame is in a terrible state; I have
not seen her like this since her husband died.”
The old lady was in a terrible state of excitement, and in spite of
rheumatic pains was walking up and down the room, gesticulating wildly,
and striking her crutch-handled stick on the floor.
“And so,” cried she in that haughty tone adopted by women of
aristocratic lineage when addressing a supposed inferior, “you have, I
hear, had the impudence to make love to my niece?”
Andre’s pale face grew crimson as he stammered out,--
“Madame--”
“Gracious powers, fellow!” cried the angry woman, “do you dare to
deny this when your very face betrays you? Do you know that you are an
insolent rogue even to venture to look on Sabine de Mussidan? How dare
you! Perhaps you thought that if you compromised her, we should be
forced to submit to this ignoble alliance.”
“On my honor, madame, I assure you--”
“On your honor! To hear you speak, one would suppose that you were a
gentleman. If my poor husband were alive, he would break every bone in
your body; but I am satisfied with ordering you out of the house. Pick
up your tools, and be off at once.”
Andre stood as though petrified into stone. He took no notice of her
imperious manner, but only realized the fact that he should never see
Sabine again, and, turning deadly pale, staggered to a chair. The
old lady was so surprised at the manner in which Andre received her
communication, that for a time she too was bewildered, and could not
utter a word.
“I am unfortunately of a violent temper,” said she, speaking in more
gentle accents, “and perhaps I have spoken too severely, for I am much
to blame in this matter, as the priest of Berron said when he came to
inform me of what was going on. I am so old that I forgot what happens
when young people are thrown together, and I was the only one who did
not know what was going on when you were affording subject of gossip for
the whole countryside; my niece--”
But here Andre started to his feet with a threatening look upon his
face.
“I could strangle them all,” cried he.
“That is right,” returned the old lady, secretly pleased at his vigor
and energy, “but you cannot silence every idle tongue. Fortunately,
matters have not gone too far. Go away, and forget my niece.”
She might as well have told the young man to go away and die.
“Madame!” cried he in accents of despair, “pray listen to me. I am
young, and full of hope and courage.”
The old lady was so touched by his evident sorrow, that the tears rolled
down her wrinkled cheeks.
“What is the good of saying this to me?” asked she. “Sabine is not my
daughter. All that I can do is never to say a word to her father and
mother. Great heavens, if Mussidan should ever learn what has occurred!
There, do go away. You have upset me so that I do not believe I shall
eat a mouthful for the next two days.”
Andre staggered out of the room. It seemed to him as if the flooring
heaved and rolled beneath his feet. He could see nothing, but he felt
some one take him by the hand. It was Sabine, pallid and cold as a
marble statue.
“I have heard everything, Andre,” murmured she.
“Yes,” stammered he. “All is over, and I am dismissed.”
“Where are you going to?”
“Heaven only knows, and when once I leave this place I care not.”
“Do not be desperate,” urged Sabine, laying her hand upon his arm.
His fixed glance terrified her as he muttered,--
“I cannot help it; I am driven to despair.”
Never had Sabine appeared so lovely; her eyes gleamed with some generous
impulse, and her face glowed.
“Suppose,” said she, “I could give you a ray of future hope, what would
you do then?”
“What would I _not_ do then? All that a man could. I would fight my way
through all opposition. Give me the hardest task, and I will fulfil it.
If money is wanted, I will gain it; if a name, I will win it.”
“There is one thing that you have forgotten, and that is patience.”
“And that, Mademoiselle, I possess also. Do you not understand that with
one word of hope from you I can live on?”
Sabine raised her head heavenwards. “Work!” she exclaimed. “Work and
hope, for I swear that I will never wed other than you.”
Here the voice of the old lady interrupted the lovers.
“Still lingering here!” she cried, in a voice like a trumpet call. Andre
fled away with hope in his heart, and felt that he had now something
to live for. No one knew exactly what happened after his departure. No
doubt Sabine brought round her aunt to her way of thinking, for at her
death, which happened two months afterward, she left the whole of her
immense fortune directly to her niece, giving her the income while
she remained single, and the capital on her marriage, whether with or
without the consent of her parents. Madame de Mussidan declared that
the old lady had gone crazy, but both Andre and Sabine knew what she had
intended, and sincerely mourned for the excellent woman, whose last act
had been to smooth away the difficulties from their path. Andre worked
harder than ever, and Sabine encouraged him by fresh promises. Sabine
was even more free in Paris than at Mussidan, and her attached maid,
Modeste, would have committed almost any crime to promote the happiness
of her beloved mistress. The lovers now corresponded regularly, and
Sabine, accompanied by Modeste, frequently visited the artist’s studio,
and never was a saint treated with greater respect and adoration than
was Sabine by Andre.