Henri Vauquelin was a widower with one daughter, to whom he had denied
nothing from the time she used to whimper for his watch and drop it on
the floor. So, after she left the convent where she had been educated,
and told him how much she was missing her friend Georgette, he said
gaily, "Mais, ma petite, invite mademoiselle--whatever her name may be,
to come to Paris and stay with us for a month."
His gaiety was a trifle forced, however. Though he was happy to
give his daughter a companion, he was pained to learn that his own
companionship hadn't been enough. "For I have done all I could," he
mused. "The fact is, that though I feel fairly young, I am elderly.
That's the trouble. To a girl of twenty-one, a father of forty-five
is an ancient for the chimney corner. I must see about finding her a
husband--I shall have to talk to madame Daudenarde about her son the
first time I am in the neighbourhood." And after Blanche had flung her
arms round his neck, and darted forth to send the invitation to her
friend, he surveyed his reflection in a glass pensively, and noted that
his moustache was much greyer than he had thought.
When the indispensable Georgette arrived, in a costume that became her
admirably, and sat at dinner, in a dress that became her more admirably
still, replying to him with composure and point, he was surprised at
the girls' attraction for each other--and his surprise did not diminish
as the days passed. Though not actually more than two or three years
older than Blanche, mademoiselle Paumelle was in tone much older.
Blanche was an ingenue; Georgette was a woman. Excepting in moments,
when she romped like a schoolgirl, all spontaneity and high spirits.
"She is a queer compound, your chum," he remarked when she had been
with them for a fortnight. "Alternately thirty, and thirteen!"
"You don't like her, papa?"
"Oh, yes, she is well enough, and not bad-looking. I am relieved she
did not turn out to be ugly--that would have depressed me. But it is a
trifle confusing to be uncertain whether I am about to be addressed by
a woman of the world or a madcap from a nursery."
"She used always to be a madcap till she lost her mother--you see,
there are only her stepfather and his two sisters now. It is that that
has changed her so dreadfully."
"I find nothing 'dreadful' about her," said Vauquelin a shade sharply.
"On the contrary, it--I suppose some people might find it rather
fascinating. I merely observe that she is different from any other girl
that I have met. What's the matter with her stepfather?"
"She tells me he never stops talking."
"His topics must be pretty catholic. This jeune fille from the country
appears to know more of politics, finance, society, and sport than I,
who have lived in Paris forty-five years."
"How you do exaggerate, papa!" rippled Blanche reprovingly.
"At any rate, I do not exaggerate the years," sighed Vauquelin. "Well,
if she is not happy at home, why not ask her to stay with us for _two_
months? She is not in my way, you know."
But mademoiselle Paumelle declared that it would be impossible for her
to prolong her visit. Blanche reported this to him with wistful lips,
and he said, "I'll see if _I_ can persuade her--I will speak to her
about it in the morning when you go to take your music-lesson."
On the morrow, "Blanche tells me that she is greatly disappointed," he
began. "She will miss you terribly when you leave us, mademoiselle. I
wish you would think over your objection."
"It is infinitely kind of you, monsieur Vauquelin. I fear that a month
is the very most I can manage."
"Even to do us a service?"
"Ah, a 'service'!" She smiled. "You will find plenty of people ready to
do you such services."
"Not plenty of mesdemoiselles Paumelle. I am in earnest. It is dull
here for Blanche, alone with me. I have done my best for her, I am
not consciously selfish--I have sat at home when I wanted to go out,
and gone out when I wanted to stop at home. I have taken her to the
Français and pretended to enjoy myself, though I could have yawned my
head off, and the question of her clothes has absorbed me more than the
affairs of France. But I am old. All my tenderness for her cannot alter
that."
"You do not seem to me old," said mademoiselle Paumelle.
"Don't I?" said Vauquelin, regarding her gratefully. "Look how grey my
moustache is getting. And yet, do you know, when we're all laughing
together I feel as young as ever I was."
"Your manner _is_ young. The face alters ever so long before the
manner."
"I am forty-f--er--over forty, and Blanche is twenty-one. What will
you? I must get her married soon. It is my paramount desire. I rather
fancy that Daudenarde and she may not dislike each other--the gentleman
you saw the other evening."
"She was doing her hair from seven o'clock till eight, and he sighed
when he handed her the lemonade."
"Your observation is invaluable. I must have a chat with his mother
soon. It would be an excellent match. In the meantime she stands in
need of the companionship and counsel of a young lady like you; she
needs it most urgently. If your stepfather can spare you----"
"Ah, my stepfather could spare me for ever," she put in; "there are
others to listen to him."
"And if you are not bored here----"
"Bored? I am having the time of my life."
"Eh bien? Remain for two months, I beg. Be merciful to us. I need
your advice, myself. There is a matter that is harassing me: I cannot
determine whether her new jumper should be beaded, silk-broidered, or
fringed."
"If it is telling on your health----" Her eyes laughed into his.
"You yield?"
"I weakly wobble."
"There is, further, the consuming question of a simple evening
dress--what it should be made of."
"I succumb. Tulle would be all right, or Georgette."
"It shall be Georgette--we shall not lose you so utterly when you go."
"Oh, you _are_--priceless!" she pealed.
Vauquelin reflected, "She has three sterling qualities, this girl--she
is pretty, she is nice, and she looks at me as if I were a young man."
During the next six weeks Vauquelin developed a zest for the Français
that was astonishing. And not for the Français only, or for the Opéra
Comique, and concerts, and kinemas. Blanche had never applauded
her papa so ardently. He would be seized with captivating whims
for expeditions, and picnics, and moonlight runs in the car. His
frolicsomeness passed belief.
Not till the six weeks were over and mademoiselle Paumelle had
departed, bearing Blanche with her, did his spirits fall. And then
there would have been no buyers. The middle-aged gentleman was plunged
into melancholy, the worse to bear from the fact that he was conscious
of being comic. Trying to throw dust in his own eyes, "It is frightful
how I miss Blanche," he would soliloquise at the elegiac dinner-table.
But the eyes were fixed sentimentally on the place that had been
Georgette's. And as the date approached for Blanche to return, and his
heart sank before the necessity for resuming his capers, "It is clear,"
he told himself, "that the affection I entertained for that Georgette
Paumelle was almost parental!"
The fatherliness of his feelings for her, however, did not avert
increased regrets at the greying moustache; and he abandoned his
shaving mirror, because it magnified the lines about his nose and mouth.
Blanche, on his knee again, had plenty to tell. She described the
stepfather as a "trial," and his maiden sisters as "cats." She had
enjoyed herself, because Georgette and she had been together all day,
but it must be hideous there for Georgette alone. "She isn't going to
stick it much longer. She is miserable with them."
"How distressing that is!" said Vauquelin. "To whom does she go?"
"Well, she has money of her own, you know--she can live where she
likes."
"_Mais--Comment donc_? She cannot live by herself--une jeune fille,
bien élevée! What an idea! Her people would never sanction it."
"I think they would be rather glad to get rid of her," said Blanche,
choosing a chocolate with deliberation.
"But--but it is monstrous! To live like a bohemian, _she_! It is
unheard of, terrible. Is she out of her mind? Listen, ma chérie, if her
plight upsets you so violently, she can make her home with us."
"Ah, papa!" cried Blanche in ecstasy. "It is the very thing I thought
of, but I was afraid it was too much to ask you."
"Now, when did I ever refuse you anything?"
"But such an enormous favour!"
"Not at all, not at all. I shall adapt myself to the arrangement well
enough."
"But, papa, it might get on your nerves in time."
"Not at all, not at all. There is my study for me to retire to--I shall
not see more of her than I want to."
"You promise that?"
"I can swear it."
"Oh, it will be adorable! I only wonder if I am being selfish to let
you do it."
"I insist," said Vauquelin, with a noble gesture. "Say we entreat her
to agree, that we shall be wounded if she declines. Say our flat is her
home for as long as she will honour us--the longer, the better. _I_
will write a few lines to her, too. Be tranquil, my sweet child--I do
not sacrifice myself. Is it not my highest joy to indulge you?"
After many letters had been indited to her, mademoiselle Paumelle was
prevailed upon to come; and after many remonstrances had been made to
her, she ceased to speak of going. But for the fact that her gifts
to the girl were expensive, it was as if she were a member of the
family. Blanche was relieved to note that her papa was not driven to
the seclusion of his study often; and never did he withdraw to it when
Blanche was absent, to take her music-lesson. As he had predicted,
Vauquelin adapted himself to the arrangement plastically. He approved
it so much, especially the tête-à-tête during the music-lessons, that
when six months had flashed by, he resented an incident which reminded
him that it couldn't be permanent. A monsieur Brigard, an old comrade,
arrived to advocate nothing less than that Blanche should espouse
Brigard's boy.
"My friend, I have other views for my daughter," replied Vauquelin
firmly.
But the arrival dejected him, in the knowledge that when Blanche
should marry, Georgette would have to go. And in their next hour alone
together, Georgette asked him what his worry was.
"Nothing. I am a little--we must all think of the future, our
children's future. A father has responsibilities."
"À propos de--what? Am I inquisitive?"
"Do I not confide everything to you? Some pest has made matrimonial
overtures about his son. Preposterous."
"The young man's position is not good enough?"
"Ah, his position is first rate. I say nothing against his position."
"It is his character that displeases you?"
"No. As for that, he is steady, and not unamiable."
"But what do you complain of?"
Vauquelin waved his hand vaguely. "The proposal does not accord with my
ideas. I have different intentions for her."
"Ah, yes, that monsieur Daudenarde! I thought perhaps that affair had
faded out."
"By no means," affirmed Vauquelin, clutching at the excuse. "Precisely.
I wish her to marry monsieur Daudenarde. And that is a sound and
laudable reason why I should resent being badgered by Brigard. I find
such intrusions on my routine very offensive. Daudenarde's mother and I
are going to have a little talk together some time or other."
"But----"
"What?"
"You decided to have a little talk with her nine or ten months ago."
"I must avoid precipitance. In such matters a father cannot act with
too much caution."
"Blanche is a darling. But there are other girls in Paris. If you
desire the match, be careful you don't let him slip."
"Have no misgiving," said Vauquelin irritably. "I am quite content.
Madame Daudenarde will receive a visit from me--when Blanche is older.
And we shall see what we shall see."
The captivating Georgette looked thoughtful. The more so after a chat
with Blanche had drawn forth the nervous confession that she "thought
monsieur Daudenarde very nice."
And then, when the volatile father had banished the menace of the
future from his mind, and was again basking in the sunshine of the
present, what should happen but that madame Daudenarde inconsiderately
broached the matter to him, instead of waiting for him to approach her.
"Dear lady, my daughter is too young," replied Vauquelin promptly.
"How, too young?" demurred madame Daudenarde. "She is one-and-twenty. I
was but nineteen when I married."
"Yes," said Vauquelin, "but my sainted mother did not marry till she
was thirty-two, and she always impressed upon me that it was the best
age."
"Thirty-two?" cried madame Daudenarde shrilly. "Do you ask me to
adjourn our conference for eleven years?"
"My honoured friend, I do not make it a hard-and-fast condition,"
stammered the unhappy man, struggling for coherence. "It is possible
there may be something to be said against it. But your gratifying
proposal is so sudden--I had not contemplated the alliance--I need time
to balance my parental duties against my reverence for my mother's
views."
Now, Georgette, who could put two and two together as accurately as
the Minister of Finance, had not failed to remark that the interview
took place privately in the study, and noted that her host was evasive
when Blanche inquired why madame Daudenarde had "called at such a funny
time." Feelers during the next music-lesson found him evasive also.
In the days that followed, when Blanche developed a tendency to sigh
plaintively, and turned against chocolates, it grew clear to Georgette
that this father must be shown the error of his ways.
"May I say that I hope that conversation with madame Daudenarde
contented you?" she ventured.
"Hein?" said Vauquelin, starting.
"That the engagement will soon be announced?"
"Mon Dieu, is it not extraordinary how people seek to rob me of my
child?" he moaned.
"Does that mean that nothing is arranged yet?"
"Why not leave well alone? Are we not all comfortable as we are? I have
made no definite reply to madame Daudenarde--I cannot be bustled. Have
you ever thought that when I part from Blanche, I shall be left here by
myself?"
"Yes. It has even occurred to me that you have thought of it, too."
"Naturally. It is not strange that I should tremble at such a prospect.
To be solitary is a sad thing."
"It is for your own sake, then, not hers, that you delay?"
"For the first time I find you lacking!" he broke out. "You do not seem
to comprehend the workings of a father's heart."
"I have never had one."
"Don't split straws! When I lose her I shall be alone. You do not
require to be a father to know that."
"You could always go to see her."
"Flûte!"
"And your grandchildren. Respectful grandchildren that clustered at
your knee."
"I will not anticipate grandchildren--I am not a hundred!" exclaimed
Vauquelin angrily. "I repeat that the present conditions are entirely
to my taste, and I desire to prolong them."
"It is also possible you might re-marry."
"At my age? Who would have me? Some ripe and ruddled widow."
"Girls, quite young, marry men much older than you."
"But not for love. Tell me, what would you put me down at? Without
flattery."
"I should call you in the prime of life."
"The friendly phrase for 'senile.' Depend upon it, people said that
to Methuselah. Supposing--a man is never too old to make a fool
of himself, you know--supposing, for the sake of argument, I felt
a tenderness, a devotion for a girl scarcely older than Blanche: a
devotion which I strove to think platonic, even while I sighed under
her window, and which revived in me unsought, the emotions--all the
sentiment, the throes, the absurdities--of the youth that had gone
from me before I knew how divine it was. Would it--could it--is it
imaginable that she might not laugh?"
"She would not laugh if she were worth it all."
"To marry me for love--a girl? To see me romantic without thinking me
ridiculous--to melt to my tears, not shrink from the crows'-feet round
my eyes? I wonder!"
"If you choose wisely, you will not wonder."
"In love, who _chooses_? Fate decides. What would you call 'wisely'?
She should be--how old?"
"Old enough to know her mind. Young enough to attract you."
"For the rest?"
"She should have means, that you might never fear it had been yours
that won her. She should have affection for your child, that she might
know no jealousy of yours. She should take interest in your child's
future, that, if you were wilful, she might guide you.... To revert to
madame Daudenarde, I counsel you to write to-day that you consent."
Vauquelin stood gazing at her incredulously.
"Georgette! Georgette!" he panted. "Do you know you have given me your
own portrait?"
"With my love," she told him, smiling.