"Yes, madame."
"Let me look. Where did you find it?
"It was in the road, madame, just against the kerb, in the rue de
Berri."
"Ah, yes. I am glad you saw it. It was a piece of luck for you, too,
hein?" She rose and opened her desk.
"Yes, indeed, madame," said the girl, clasping her hands.
"What are you--I mean, what do you do for a living?"
"I work at madame Wilhelmine's, madame."
"The milliner's? Why don't you go as mannequin somewhere?--you
are--er--pretty."
"They tell me my figure is not good enough, madame."
"That's true. Your figure is bad," said the lady, more amiably. "Well,
you could sit to artists for the face. You could earn more money that
way than Wilhelmine pays you, I should think."
"I know only one honest way to make as much money as I want, madame,"
said the girl, in a low voice. "I want a good deal."
"Tiens! The State lotteries, of course."
"No, madame; a likelier way than that."
"Oh! And what do you call a good deal?"
"Madame understands that I am very poor. A trifle to madame would be a
good deal to _me._ Say, a hundred thousand francs."
"A hundred thousand francs! Such a sum is not a trifle to anybody. You
know a way to make it?"
"Thanks to this reward, I have a chance to make it," assented the girl,
folding the bank notes that had been given to her.
"And _not_ the lotteries?"
"No, madame; a journey for which I lacked the fare. But I bore madame?"
"No, no; go on."
"Eh bien, I am sick of poverty; I would far rather part with my face
and gain wealth than remain beautiful and a beggar."
"You would far rather----What do you say?"
"I am going to the Face Exchange, madame," said the girl resolutely.
The old woman looked at her stupefied. "The what?" she asked in a
whisper.
"Madame has not heard of it? It is held once a year. Of course one may
fail; one may not be able to strike a bargain--and even if one does,
the miracle may not occur. But something tells me I shall be fortunate."
Madame de Val Fleury shrank back on the couch, frightened--she could
not doubt that the girl was insane. After a moment, nerving herself to
approach the bell, she stammered, "Yes, yes, I remember now. I daresay
it is the best thing you can do. Good afternoon to you. I wish you
every success." And as she sniffed at the smelling salts brought by her
maid, she murmured, trembling, "Mad. How terrible! Quite, quite mad."
The incident did not fade from her mind. She thought of it in the
night, and on the morrow, and when she took the sapphire and the
snapped chain to her jeweller's. If the nonsense the poor creature
talked had only been true! What ecstasy! And her tone had been
perfectly sane. ... Oh, of course she was demented. Still--still,
miracles did happen. Look at Lourdes! Every day madame de Val Fleury
recalled the matter with a curiosity more intense, and regretted the
alarm that had prevented her obtaining details.
Before a week had gone by, the curiosity drove her to make a purchase
at the milliner's the girl had mentioned.
"You have a young person employed here who found a jewel that I lost,"
she remarked. "I don't see her in the shop."
"Yes, madame. No, madame--she is in the workroom. How fortunate that
madame's sapphire was restored to her!"
"Ah, the workroom. Have you had her long? Is she satisfactory?"
"Ah yes, madame. About two years. I have no fault to find with her."
"I fancied she was a little odd in her manner. You have not noticed
anything of the kind?"
"Mais non, madame. No doubt she was shy in madame's presence. No, she
is quick to take a hint, that girl; she has all her wits about her."
"You might tell her I should like to have a word with her," faltered
madame de Val Fleury. And when the girl appeared, still more beautiful
without a hat, she said, "Come to my flat again this evening about nine
o'clock if you can. I will make it worth your while. I want to talk to
you."
As she passed out she felt breathless and dizzy.
"Then, if she is not mad--" panted madame de Val Fleury, "then, if she
is not mad----My God, can there be something in it?"
She had been going to a neighbour's for a game of écarté after
dinner, and écarté was a passion with her, but she knew no regrets
in cancelling the engagement. A book by her favourite novelist, just
published, lay to hand, and reading was another of her pet pleasures,
but she did not open it, as she sat waiting for the hour to strike.
Punctually at nine o'clock the bell rang. The girl was shown in.
"Good evening," said madame de Val Fleury. "Sit down. No, no, not so
far off. Come closer. Tell me. I have been wondering.... What you were
speaking about the other afternoon. Is it really a fact?"
"Madame means my intention?"
"I mean the place itself. It actually exists?"
"Ah, certainly it exists, madame!"
"Where is it?"
"In Brittany, madame. Near Pont Chouay."
"But--it sounds incredible! I am sure you are sincere, but--how long
have you known of it?"
"I have known of it ever since the first miracle that happened there,
madame, four years ago. I lived in the village then. The face of a
little girl, the miller's child, was burnt--ah, it was frightful to
see!--and her mother knelt and prayed, the whole night through, that
she herself might bear the scars instead. And at dawn it _was_ so, and
the child's face was as fair as ever."
"It takes one's breath away! What is the village called?"
"St. Pierre des Champs, madame. If madame goes there and inquires,
everyone will confirm what I tell her."
"And such miracles have happened again?"
"At dawn on each seventh of September, madame. I assure madame I speak
the truth."
"Listen," said madame de Val Fleury. "I shall go and hear what they
say. If I am satisfied, are you willing to--to exchange your face for
mine? I will not haggle with you, I will pay what you want. It is a
large amount, but you shall have it--a hundred thousand francs."
"One would have to think over the price, madame," said the girl
hesitatingly.
"What? It is the figure you named."
"Yes--for an exchange. But it is possible I might change with someone
of my own years. Naturally I should prefer that."
"You do not suppose a young girl would pay a hundred thousand francs?"
cried madame de Val Fleury, wincing. "If she has youth already, what
for?"
"For beauty. There are many young girls who would be content to do so."
"There will not be many living in a little village."
"Ah, madame, people who know arrive from all parts. Besides, it might
be better for me to take even fifty thousand francs with a young face
than a hundred thousand with--with one more mature. Madame understands
that I am human--I am not indifferent to the other sex. If I
sacrifice all my prospects of admiration, sweethearts, husband, it is
worth a great sum."
"I shall go and hear what they say," repeated madame de Val Fleury,
deeply mortified. "What is your name?"
"Berthe Cheron, madame."
"Put it down for me, and your private address. If what I hear convinces
me perhaps we may come to terms."
All night the old woman dreamt she was again of surpassing loveliness,
the envy of all the women of her world.
She went to Brittany the same week, and returned palpitating with the
tales that had been told her. She agreed with mademoiselle Cheron to
pay 120,000 francs if the metamorphosis occurred, and it was arranged
that, when the time came, they should travel to St. Pierre des Champs
together.
In the meanwhile her rapturous reflections were not free from anxiety.
If the dawning of the longed-for date should indeed yield her Berthe
Cheron's face, she would be no longer recognised as madame de Val
Fleury. Her social circle would not know her; monsieur Septfous,
her banker--she banked at a private bank, and monsieur Septfous was
practically her man of business--would not know her; her servants
themselves would not know her when she came back to Paris. To explain
would be to meet with perpetual embarrassments. On the whole, the best
plan would be to change her name as well. It would mean relinquishing
a few friendships that she valued, but----Again, she foresaw herself
dazzlingly fair, and caught her breath. Her loveliness would compensate
a million-fold.
Her income was derived chiefly from Municipal Bonds and Métro shares.
At the bank she had also a substantial sum on deposit. She told
monsieur Septfous that she had decided to spend the rest of her life
in the country, and she took a draft, payable to bearer, for the full
amount of cash, and removed her box of securities.
She determined to call herself madame de Beaulieu.
Late on the evening of the 6th of September the old woman and the girl
arrived at St. Pierre des Champs.
They had expected to arrive earlier, but the train crept into Pont
Chouay at 7.30 instead of 5.15, and thence they were dependent on the
local fiacres, which were hard to find and slow to move. Madame de Val
Fleury reached the village, impatient and fatigued.
In the little moonlit market-place, with its vacant stalls, when they
entered it at last, many figures circulated, scrutinising one another's
features eagerly. Most of the men and women bore lanterns, and one
of the stalls had evidently been sub-let for the evening; under the
sign "Christophe: Cheese, Eggs, and Butter," a humpback had electric
torches for sale. As the pair made their way, across the cobbles, to
the shrine that had been erected beside the water-mill, no face of
much beauty met their view. The sellers appeared to be chiefly buxom
peasant girls, wholesome looking, but no more. Those who had come to
buy were of types more various. Here, an old roue, fraudulently dyed
and painted, peered avidly at the features of a youth, who raised his
lantern and rebuffed him with a jeer. There, an individual with crafty
lips and predatory eyes, obviously a sharper, was to be seen bargaining
for the physiognomy of a simpleton. A man with a round humorous face
darted each moment from one melancholy countenance to another, and a
passer-by said, loud enough to be overheard: "Look at Jibily, the low
comedian--he is crazy to play tragic parts!" Irritating and incessant
was the shrill outcry of a female broker, hobbling with a file of
maids-of-all-work at her heels. "Fine faces cheap!" clamoured the
crone. "Fine faces cheap!"
It became very cold beside the water-mill. As the laggard night wore
by, madame de Val Fleury shivered distressfully. Alternately she prayed
and despaired. More than once she glanced, tense with hope, at her
companion, striving to detect some promise of the sought-for change,
but the girl's face remained unaltered. In the serene radiance of the
moon its fairness was exquisite beyond words, and the woman wrung her
hands with the intensity of her desire.
Slowly, slowly the moonlight faded. The pallor of dawn streaked
the sky; and a hundred faces were upturned beseechingly, a hundred
suppliants trembled. Wan and white grew the scene. A tremor and a
rustling stirred the huddled figures. Suddenly, somewhere a woman
wailed, "No use!" and burst into sobs. Berthe Cheron, fearful now the
moment had come, of beholding herself gaunt-cheeked and wrinkled,
bowed her head, shuddering, in her hands. Madame de Val Fleury, half
dazed with exhaustion and suspense, bent to the shining surface of the
pool. The pool receded. It became suddenly unreal. Next, her pounding
heart was squeezed with terror--she didn't know if the reflection she
beheld was her own, or Berthe Cheron's, from behind her. She nodded
wildly at her reflection; she grimaced and gesticulated at it, like
a madwoman.... It had happened! She thought she gave an ear-piercing
shriek of joy, but she fainted, without a sound.
* * * * *
After the money was paid she neither saw nor heard anything of Berthe
Cheron. Aided by a lady whose birth gave her the passport to society,
and whose income made her amenable to a financial offer, madame de Val
Fleury, or, as she now called herself, Victorine de Beaulieu, was the
sensation of Paris that autumn. The consummate toilettes permitted
by her wealth lent to her face a beauty even more transcendent than
Berthe Cheron's had been. When she drove, people pressed forward on
the sidewalks to regard her. When she entered her box at the Opéra,
everybody in the house to whom the box was visible looked at her as
much as at the stage. In salons, faces the most admired before her
advent paled in her presence, like candle flames in sunshine. She was
paramount and she revelled in the knowledge. Yet the transformation had
its lack. She missed her game of écarté with her erstwhile neighbour.
She missed the garrulity of familiar friends whom she no longer met.
There were hours when, despite the transports afforded by the mirror
now, she found time hang heavy on her hands. And the hands, of course,
had not recovered girlishness and beauty. Nor her body, nor her mind.
That was the drawback. Only her face was young. Physically and mentally
she was old. Her corsetiere could not provide her with a figure to
match the face. Her physician could not give back to her the energies
that had gone. Her mirror itself was impotent to revive the enthusiasm
and illusions of her youth.
Men made love to the bewildering "young widow." After the first thrill
of amazed exultance she was bored. Their fervour kindled no responsive
spark. Her aged heart beat no faster. The sentiment, the rhapsodies
poured into her ear seemed drearily stupid to the old woman, as she
posed on balconies, wishing she were in her bedroom with a cup of
tisane and her slippers. During the third passionate proposal addressed
to her, it was with extreme difficulty that she restrained her jaws
from yawning.
"Why are you so cold--why won't you hear me?" men cried to her. And she
answered dully: "I am not impressionable. It doesn't interest me to be
made love to. I am tired of all that."