Love, like any other human malady, should be treated according to the
age and temperament of the sufferer. Madame de Nailles, who was a very
keen observer, especially where her own interests were concerned, lent
herself with the best possible grace to everything that might amuse and
distract Jacqueline, of whom she had by this time grown afraid. Not that
she now dreaded her as a rival. The attitude of coldness and reserve
that the young girl had adopted in her intercourse with Marien, her
stepmother could see, was no evidence of coquetry. She showed, in her
behavior to the friend of the family, a freedom from embarrassment
which was new to her, and a frigidity which could not possibly have
been assumed so persistently. No! what struck Madame de Nailles was the
suddenness of this transformation. Jacqueline evidently took no further
interest in Marien; she had apparently no longer any affection for
herself--she, who had been once her dear little mamma, whom she
had loved so tenderly, now felt herself to be considered only as a
stepmother. Fraulein Schult, too, received no more confidences. What did
it all mean?
Had Jacqueline, through any means, discovered a secret, which, in her
hands, might be turned into a most dangerous weapon? She had a way of
saying before the guilty pair: “Poor papa!” with an air of pity, as she
kissed him, which made Madame de Nailles’s flesh creep, and sometimes
she would amuse herself by making ambiguous remarks which shot arrows
of suspicion into a heart already afraid. “I feel sure,” thought
the Baroness, “that she has found out everything. But, no! it seems
impossible. How can I discover what she knows?”
Jacqueline’s revenge consisted in leaving her stepmother in doubt. She
more than suspected, not without cause, that Fraulein Schult was false
to her, and had the wit to baffle all the clever questions of her
‘promeneuse’.
“My worship of a man of genius--a great artist? Oh! that has all come
to an end since I have found out that his devotion belongs to an elderly
lady with a fair complexion and light hair. I am only sorry for him.”
Jacqueline had great hopes that these cruel words would be reported--as
they were--to her stepmother, and, of course, they did not mitigate
the Baroness’s uneasiness. Madame de Nailles revenged herself for this
insult by dismissing the innocent echo of the impertinence--of course,
under some plausible pretext. She felt it necessary also to be very
cautious how she treated the enemy whom she was forced to shelter
under her own roof. Her policy--a policy imposed on her by force of
circumstances--was one of great indulgence and consideration, so that
Jacqueline, soon feeling that she was for the present under no control,
took the bit between her teeth. No other impression can adequately
convey an idea of the sort of fury with which she plunged into
pleasure and excitement, a state of mind which apparently, without any
transition, succeeded her late melancholy. She had done with sentiment,
she thought, forever. She meant to be practical and positive, a little
Parisienne, and “in the swim.” There were plenty of examples among those
she knew that she could follow. Berthe, Helene, and Claire Wermant were
excellent leaders in that sort of thing. Those three daughters of
the ‘agent de change’ were at this time at Treport, in charge of a
governess, who let them do whatever they pleased, subject only to be
scolded by their father, who came down every Saturday to Treport, on
that train that was called the ‘train des maris’. They had made friends
with two or three American girls, who were called “fast,” and Jacqueline
was soon enrolled in the ranks of that gay company.
The cure that was begun on the wooden horse at Blackfern’s was completed
on the sea-shore.
The girls with whom she now associated were nine or ten little imps of
Satan, who, with their hair flying in the wind and their caps over one
ear, made the quiet beach ring with their boy-like gayety. They were
called “the Blue Band,” because of a sort of uniform that they adopted.
We speak of them intentionally as masculine, and not feminine, because
what is masculine best suited their appearance and behavior, for, though
all could flirt like coquettes of experience, they were more like boys
than girls, if judged by their age and their costume.
These Blues lived close to one another on that avenue that is edged
with chalets, cottages, and villas, whose lower floors are abundantly
provided with great glass windows, which seem to let the ocean into
their very rooms, as well as to lay bare everything that passes in them
to the public eye, as frankly as if their inmates bivouacked in the open
street. Nothing was private; neither the meals, nor the coming and going
of visitors. It must be said, however, that the inhabitants of these
glass houses were very seldom at home. Bathing, and croquet, or tennis,
at low water, on the sands, searching for shells, fishing with nets,
dances at the Casino, little family dances alternating with concerts, to
which even children went till nine o’clock, would seem enough to fill
up the days of these young people, but they had also to make boating
excursions to Cayeux, Crotoy, and Hourdel, besides riding parties in the
beautiful country that surrounded the Chateau of Lizerolles, where they
usually dismounted on their return.
At Lizerolles they were received by Madame d’Argy, who was delighted
that they provided safe amusement for her son, who appeared in the midst
of this group of half-grown girls like a young cock among the hens of
his harem. Frederic d’Argy, the young naval officer, who was enjoying
his holiday, as M. de Nailles had said, was enjoying it exceedingly.
How often, long after, on board the ship Floye, as he paced the silent
quarter-deck, far from any opportunity of flirting, did he recall
the forms and faces of these young girls, some dark, some fair, some
rosy-half-women and half-children, who made much of him, and scolded
him, and teased him, and contended for his attentions, while no better
could be had, on purpose to tease one another. Oh! what a delightful
time he had had! They did not leave him to himself one moment. He had to
lift them into their saddles, to assist them as they clambered over the
rocks, to superintend their attempts at swimming, to dance with them all
by turns, and to look after them in the difficult character of Mentor,
for he was older than they, and were they not entrusted to his care?
What a serious responsibility! Had not Mentor even found himself too
often timid and excited when one little firm foot was placed in his
hand, when his arm was round one little waist, when he could render her
as a cavalier a thousand little services, or accept with gladness the
role of her consoler. He did everything he could think of to please
them, finding all of them charming, though Jacqueline never ceased to be
the one he preferred, a preference which she might easily have inferred
from the poor lad’s unusual timidity and awkwardness when he was brought
into contact with her. But she paid no attention to his devotion,
accepting himself and all he did for her as, in some sort, her personal
property.
He was of no consequence, he did not count; what was he but her comrade
and former playfellow?
Happily for Fred, he took pleasure in the familiarity with which she
treated him--a familiarity which, had he known it, was not flattering.
He was in the seventh heaven for a whole fortnight, during which he was
the recipient of more dried flowers and bows of ribbon than he ever got
in all the rest of his life--the American girls were very fond of giving
keepsakes--but then his star waned. He was no longer the only one. The
grown-up brother of the Wermants came to Treport--Raoul, with his air
of a young man about town--a boulevardier, with his jacket cut in the
latest fashion, with his cockle-shell of a boat, which he managed as
well on salt water as on fresh, sculling with his arms bare, a cigarette
in his mouth, a monocle in his eye, and a pith-helmet, such as is worn
in India. The young ladies used to gather on the sands to watch him as
he struck the water with the broad blade of his scull, near enough for
them to see and to admire his nautical ability. They thought all his
jokes amusing, and they delighted in his way of seizing his partner for
a waltz and bearing her off as if she were a prize, hardly allowing her
to touch the floor.
Fred thought him, with his stock of old jokes, very ill-mannered. He
laughed at his sculling, and had a great mind to strike him after he
saw him waltzing with Jacqueline. But he had to acknowledge the general
appreciation felt for the fellow whom he called vulgar.
Raoul Wermant did not stay long at Treport. He had only come to see his
sisters on his way to Dieppe, where he expected to meet a certain Leah
Skip, an actress from the ‘Nouveautes’. If he kept her waiting, however,
for some days, it was because he was loath to leave the handsome
Madame de Villegry, who was living near her friend Madame de Nailles,
recruiting herself after the fatigues of the winter season. Such being
the situation, the young girls of the Blue Band might have tried in vain
to make any impression upon him. But the hatred with which he inspired
Fred found some relief in the composition of fragments of melancholy
verse, which the young midshipman hid under his mattresses. It is not an
uncommon thing for naval men to combine a love of the sea with a love
of poetry. Fred’s verses were not good, but they were full of dejection.
The poor fellow compared Raoul Wermant to Faust, and himself to Siebel.
He spoke of
The youth whose eyes were brimming with salt tears,
Whose heart was troubled by a thousand fears,
Poor slighted lover!-since in his heavy heart
All his illusions perish and depart.
Again, he wrote of Siebel:
O Siebel!--thine is but the common fate!
They told thee Fortune upon youth would wait;
‘Tis false when love’s in question-and you may--
Here he enumerated all the proofs of tenderness possible for a woman to
give her lover, and then he added:
You may know all, poor Siebel!--all, some day,
When weary of this life and all its dreams,
You learn to know it is not what it seems;
When there is nothing that can cheer you more,
All that remains is fondly to adore!
And after trying in vain to find a rhyme for lover, he cried:
Oh! tell me--if one grief exceeds another
Is not this worst, to feel mere friendship moves
To cruel kindness the dear girl he loves?
Fred’s mother surprised him one night while he was watering with his
tears the ink he was putting to so sorry a use. She had been aware
that he sat up late at night--his sleeplessness was not the insomnia of
genius--for she had seen the glare of light from his little lamp burning
later than the usual bedtime of the chateau, in one of the turret
chambers at Lizerolles.
In vain Fred denied that he was doing anything, in vain he tried to put
his papers out of sight; his mother was so persuasive that at last he
owned everything to her, and in addition to the comfort he derived from
his confession, he gained a certain satisfaction to his ‘amour-propre’,
for Madame d’Argy thought the verses beautiful. A mother’s geese are
always swans. But it was only when she said, “I don’t see why you should
not marry your Jacqueline--such a thing is not by any means impossible,”
and promised to do all in her power to insure his happiness, that Fred
felt how dearly he loved his mother. Oh, a thousand times more than he
had ever supposed he loved her! However, he had not yet done with the
agonies that lie in wait for lovers.
Madame de Monredon arrived one day at the Hotel de la Plage, accompanied
by her granddaughter, whom she had taken away from the convent before
the beginning of the holidays. Since she had fully arranged the marriage
with M. de Talbrun, it seemed important that Giselle should acquire
some liveliness, and recruit her health, before the fatal wedding-day
arrived. M. de Talbrun liked ladies to be always well and always lively,
and it was her duty to see that Giselle accommodated herself to his
taste; sea-bathing, life in the open air, and merry companions, were the
things she needed to make her a little less thin, to give her tone, and
to take some of her convent stiffness out of her. Besides, she could
have free intercourse with her intended husband, thanks to the greater
freedom of manners permitted at the sea-side. Such were the ideas of
Madame de Monredon.
Poor Giselle! In vain they dressed her in fine clothes, in vain they
talked to her and scolded her from morning till night, she continued to
be the little convent-bred schoolgirl she had always been; with downcast
eyes, pale as a flower that has known no sunlight, and timid to a point
of suffering. M. de Talbrun frightened her as much as ever, and she had
looked forward to the comfort of weeping in the arms of Jacqueline, who,
the last time she had seen her, had been herself so unhappy. But what
was her astonishment to find the young girl, who, a few weeks before,
had made her such tragic confidences through the grille in the convent
parlor, transformed into a creature bent on excitement and amusement.
When she attempted to allude to the subject on which Jacqueline had
spoken to her at the convent, and to ask her what it was that had then
made her so unhappy, Jacqueline cried: “Oh! my dear, I have forgotten
all about it!” But there was exaggeration in this profession of
forgetfulness, and she hurriedly drew Giselle back to the game of
croquet, where they were joined by M. de Talbrun.
The future husband of Giselle was a stout young fellow, short and
thick-set, with broad shoulders, a large flat face, and strong jaws,
ornamented with an enormous pair of whiskers, which partly compensated
him for a loss of hair. He had never done anything but shoot and hunt
over his property nine months in the year, and spend the other three
months in Paris, where the jockey Club and ballet-dancers sufficed for
his amusement. He did not pretend to be a man whose bachelor life had
been altogether blameless, but he considered himself to be a “correct”
man, according to what he understood by that expression, which implied
neither talents, virtues, nor good manners; nevertheless, all the Blue
Band agreed that he was a finished type of gentleman-hood. Even Raoul’s
sisters had to confess, with a certain disgust, that, whatever people
may say, in our own day the aristocracy of wealth has to lower its flag
before the authentic quarterings of the old noblesse. They secretly
envied Giselle because she was going to be a grande dame, while all the
while they asserted that old-fashioned distinctions had no longer any
meaning. Nevertheless, they looked forward to the day when they, too,
might take their places in the Faubourg St. Germain. One may purchase
that luxury with a fortune of eight hundred thousand francs.
The croquet-ground, which was underwater at high tide, was a long
stretch of sand that fringed the shingle. Two parties were formed, in
which care was taken to make both sides as nearly equal as possible,
after which the game began, with screams, with laughter, a little
cheating and some disputes, as is the usual custom. All this appeared
to amuse Oscar de Talbrun--exceedingly. For the first time during his
wooing he was not bored. The Misses Sparks--Kate and Nora--by their
“high spirits” agreeably reminded him of one or two excursions he had
made in past days into Bohemian society.
He formed the highest opinion of Jacqueline when he saw how her
still short skirts showed pretty striped silk stockings, and how
her well-shaped foot was planted firmly on a blue ball, when she was
preparing to roquer the red one. The way in which he fixed his eyes upon
her gave great offense to Fred, and did it not alarm and shock Giselle?
No! Giselle looked on calmly at the fun and talk around her, as unmoved
as the stump of a tree, spoiling the game sometimes by her ignorance
or her awkwardness, well satisfied that M. de Talbrun should leave her
alone. Talking with him was very distasteful to her.
“You have been more stupid than usual,” had been what her grandmother
had never failed to say to her in Paris after one of his visits, which
he alternated with bouquets. But at Treport no one seemed to mind her
being stupid, and indeed M. de Talbrun hardly thought of her existence,
up to the moment when they were all nearly caught by the first wave that
came rolling in over the croquet-ground, when all the girls took flight,
flushed, animated, and with lively gesticulation, while the gentlemen
followed with the box into which had been hastily flung hoops, balls,
and mallets.
On their way Count Oscar condescendingly explained to Fred, as to a
novice, that the only good thing about croquet was that it brought men
and girls together. He was himself very good at games, he said, having
remarkably firm muscles and exceptionally sharp sight; but he went on to
add that he had not been able to show what he could do that day. The wet
sand did not make so good a croquet-ground as the one he had had made in
his park! It is a good thing to know one’s ground in all circumstances,
but especially in playing croquet. Then, dexterously passing from the
game to the players, he went on to say, under cover of giving Fred a
warning, that a man need not fear going too far with those girls from
America--they had known how to flirt from the time they were born. They
could look out for themselves, they had talons and beaks; but up to a
certain point they were very easy to get on with. Those other players
were queer little things; the three sisters Wermant were not wanting in
chic, but, hang it!--the sweetest flower of them all, to his mind, was
the tall one, the dark one--unripe fruit in perfection! “And a year
or two hence,” added M. de Talbrun, with all the self-confidence of an
expert, “every one will be talking about her in the world of society.”
Poor Fred kept silent, trying to curb his wrath. But the blood mounted
to his temples as he listened to these remarks, poured into his ear by a
man of thirty-five, between puffs of his cigar, because there was
nobody else to whom he could make them. But they seemed to Fred very
ill-mannered and ill-timed. If he had not dreaded making himself absurd,
he would gladly have stood forth as the champion of the Sparks, the
Wermants, and all the other members of the Blue Band, so that he might
give vent to the anger raging in his heart on hearing that odious
compliment to Jacqueline. Why was he not old enough to marry her? What
right had that detestable Talbrun to take notice of any girl but his
fiancee? If he himself could marry now, his choice would soon be made!
No doubt, later--as his mother had said to him. But would Jacqueline
wait? Everybody was beginning to admire her. Somebody would carry her
off--somebody would cut him out while he was away at sea. Oh, horrible
thought for a young lover!
That night, at the Casino, while dancing a quadrille with Giselle, he
could not refrain from saying to her, “Don’t you object to Monsieur de
Talbrun’s dancing so much with Jacqueline?”
“Who?--I?” she cried, astonished, “I don’t see why he should not.”
And then, with a faint laugh, she added: “Oh, if she would only take
him--and keep him!”
But Madame de Monredon kept a sharp eye upon M. de Talbrun. “It seems
to me,” she said, looking fixedly into the face of her future
grandson-in-law, “that you really take pleasure in making children skip
about with you.”
“So I do,” he replied, frankly and good-humoredly. “It makes me feel
young again.”
And Madame de Monredon was satisfied. She was ready to admit that most
men marry women who have not particularly enchanted them, and she had
brought up Giselle with all those passive qualities, which, together
with a large fortune, usually suit best with a ‘mariage de convenance’.
Meantime Jacqueline piqued herself upon her worldly wisdom, which she
looked upon as equal to Madame de Monredon’s, since the terrible event
which had filled her mind with doubts. She thought M. de Talbrun would
do well enough for a husband, and she took care to say so to Giselle.
“It is a fact,” she told her, with all the self-confidence of large
experience, “that men who are very fascinating always remain bachelors.
That is probably why Monsieur de Cymier, Madame de Villegry’s handsome
cousin, does not think of marrying.”
She was mistaken. The Comte de Cymier, a satellite who revolved around
that star of beauty, Madame de Villegry, had been by degrees brought
round by that lady herself to thoughts of matrimony.
Madame de Villegry, notwithstanding her profuse use of henna and many
cosmetics, which was always the first thing to strike those who saw her,
prided herself on being uncompromised as to her moral character. There
are some women who, because they stop short of actual vice, consider
themselves irreproachable. They are willing, so to speak, to hang out
the bush, but keep no tavern. In former times an appearance of evil was
avoided in order to cover evil deeds, but at present there are those
who, under the cover of being only “fast,” risk the appearance of evil.
Madame de Villegry was what is sometimes called a “professional beauty.”
She devoted many hours daily to her toilette, she liked to have a crowd
of admirers around her. But when one of them became too troublesome, she
got rid of him by persuading him to marry. She had before this proposed
several young girls to Gerard de Cymier, each one plainer and more
insignificant than the others. It was to tell his dear friend that the
one she had last suggested was positively too ugly for him, that the
young attache to an embassy had come down to the sea-side to visit her.
The day after his arrival he was sitting on the shingle at Madame de
Villegry’s feet, both much amused by the grotesque spectacle presented
by the bathers, who exhibited themselves in all degrees of ugliness and
deformity. Of course Madame de Villegry did not bathe, being, as she
said, too nervous. She was sitting under a large parasol and enjoying
her own superiority over those wretched, amphibious creatures who
waddled on the sands before her, comparing Madame X to a seal and
Mademoiselle Z to the skeleton of a cuttle-fish.
“Well! it was that kind of thing you wished me to marry,” said M. de
Cymier, in a tone of resentment.
“But, my poor friend, what would you have? All young girls are like
that. They improve when they are married.”
“If one could only be sure.”
“One is never sure of anything, especially anything relating to young
girls. One can not say that they do more than exist till they are
married. A husband has to make whatever he chooses out of them. You are
quite capable of making what you choose of your wife. Take the risk,
then.”
“I could educate her as to morals--though, I must say, I am not much
used to that kind of instruction; but you will permit me to think that,
as to person, I should at least wish to see a rough sketch of what I may
expect in my wife before my marriage.”
At that moment, a girl who had been bathing came out of the water a few
yards from them; the elegant outline of her slender figure, clad in a
bathing-suit of white flannel, which clung to her closely, was thrown
into strong relief by the clear blue background of a summer sky.
“Tiens!--but she is pretty!” cried Gerard, breaking off what he was
saying: “And she is the first pretty one I have seen!”
Madame de Villegry took up her tortoiseshell opera-glasses, which were
fastened to her waist, but already the young girl, over whose shoulders
an attentive servant had flung a wrapper--a ‘peignoir-eponge’--had run
along the boardwalk and stopped before her, with a gay “Good-morning!”
“Jacqueline!” said Madame de Villegry. “Well, my dear child, did you
find the water pleasant?”
“Delightful!” said the young girl, giving a rapid glance at M. de
Cymier, who had risen.
He was looking at her with evident admiration, an admiration at which
she felt much flattered. She was closely wrapped in her soft, snow-white
peignoir, bordered with red, above which rose her lovely neck and head.
She was trying to catch, on the point of one little foot, one of her
bathing shoes, which had slipped from her. The foot which, when well
shod, M. de Talbrun, through his eyeglass, had so much admired, was
still prettier without shoe or stocking. It was so perfectly formed, so
white, with a little pink tinge here and there, and it was set upon so
delicate an ankle! M. de Cymier looked first at the foot, and then his
glance passed upward over all the rest of the young figure, which could
be seen clearly under the clinging folds of the wet drapery. Her form
could be discerned from head to foot, though nothing was uncovered but
the pretty little arm which held together with a careless grace the
folds of her raiment. The eye of the experienced observer ran rapidly
over the outline of her figure, till it reached the dark head and
the brown hair, which rippled in little curls over her forehead. Her
complexion, slightly golden, was not protected by one of those absurd
hats which many bathers place on top of oiled silk caps which fit them
closely. Neither was the precaution of oiled silk wanted to protect the
thick and curling hair, now sprinkled with great drops that shone like
pearls and diamonds. The water, instead of plastering her hair upon her
temples, had made it more curly and more fleecy, as it hung over her
dark eyebrows, which, very near together at the nose, gave to her eyes a
peculiar, slightly oblique expression. Her teeth were dazzling, and
were displayed by the smile which parted her lips--lips which were, if
anything, too red for her pale complexion. She closed her eyelids now
and then to shade her eyes from the too blinding sunlight. Those eyes
were not black, but that hazel which has golden streaks. Though only
half open, they had quickly taken in the fact that the young man sitting
beside Madame de Villegry was very handsome.
As she went on with a swift step to her bathing-house, she drew out two
long pins from her back hair, shaking it and letting it fall down
her back with a slightly impatient and imperious gesture; she wished,
probably, that it might dry more quickly.
“The devil!” said M. de Cymier, watching her till she disappeared into
the bathing-house. “I never should have thought that it was all her own!
There is nothing wanting in her. That is a young creature it is pleasant
to see.”
“Yes,” said Madame de Villegry, quietly, “she will be very good-looking
when she is eighteen.”
“Is she nearly eighteen?”
“She is and she is not, for time passes so quickly. A girl goes to sleep
a child, and wakes up old enough to be married. Would you like to be
informed, without loss of time, as to her fortune?”
“Oh! I should not care much about her dot. I look out first for other
things.”
“I know, of course; but Jacqueline de Nailles comes of a very good
family.”
“Is she the daughter of the deputy?”
“Yes, his only daughter. He has a pretty house in the Parc Monceau and a
chateau of some importance in the Haute-Vienne.”
“Very good; but, I repeat, I am not mercenary. Of course, if I should
marry, I should like, for my wife’s sake, to live as well as a married
man as I have lived as a bachelor.”
“Which means that you would be satisfied with a fortune equal to your
own. I should have thought you might have asked more. It is true that
if you have been suddenly thunderstruck that may alter your
calculations--for it was very sudden, was it not? Venus rising from the
sea!”
“Please don’t exaggerate! But you are not so cruel, seeing you are
always urging me to marry, as to wish me to take a wife who looks like a
fright or a horror.”
“Heaven preserve me from any such wish! I should be very glad if my
little friend Jacqueline were destined to work your reformation.”
“I defy the most careful parent to find anything against me at this
moment, unless it be a platonic devotion. The youth of Mademoiselle de
Nailles is an advantage, for I might indulge myself in that till we were
married, and then I should settle down and leave Paris, where nothing
keeps me but--”
“But a foolish fancy,” laughed Madame de Villegry. “However, in return
for your madrigal, accept the advice of a friend. The Nailles seem to
me to be prosperous, but everybody in society appears so, and one never
knows what may happen any day. You would not do amiss if, before you
go on, you were to talk with Wermant, the ‘agent de change’, who has a
considerable knowledge of the business affairs of Jacqueline’s father.
He could tell you about them better than I can.”
“Wermant is at Treport, is he not? I thought I saw him--”
“Yes, he is here till Monday. You have twenty-four hours.”
“Do you really think I am in such a hurry?”
“Will you take a bet that by this time to-morrow you will not know
exactly the amount of her dot and the extent of her expectations?”
“You would lose. I have something else to think of--now and always.”
“What?” she said, carelessly.
“You have forbidden me ever to mention it.”
Silence ensued. Then Madame de Villegry said, smiling:
“I suppose you would like me to present you this evening to my friends
the De Nailles?”
And in fact they all met that evening at the Casino, and Jacqueline,
in a gown of scarlet foulard, which would have been too trying for any
other girl, seemed to M. de Cymier as pretty as she had been in her
bathing-costume. Her hair was not dressed high, but it was gathered
loosely together and confined by a ribbon of the same color as her gown,
and she wore a little sailor hat besides. In this costume she had been
called by M. de Talbrun the “Fra Diavolo of the Seas,” and she never
better supported that part, by liveliness and audacity, than she
did that evening, when she made a conquest that was envied--wildly
envied--by the three Demoiselles Wermant and the two Misses Sparks,
for the handsome Gerard, after his first waltz with Madame de Villegry,
asked no one to be his partner but Mademoiselle de Nailles.
The girls whom he neglected had not even Fred to fall back upon, for
Fred, the night before, had received orders to join his ship. He had
taken leave of Jacqueline with a pang in his heart which he could
hardly hide, but to which no keen emotion on her part seemed to respond.
However, at least, he was spared the unhappiness of seeing the star of
De Cymier rising above the horizon.
“If he could only see me,” thought Jacqueline, waltzing in triumph with
M. de Cymier. “If he could only see me I should be avenged.”
But he was not Fred. She was not giving him a thought. It was the
last flash of resentment and hatred that came to her in that moment of
triumph, adding to it a touch of exquisite enjoyment.
Thus she performed the obsequies of her first love!
Not long after this M. de Nailles said to his wife:
“Do you know, my dear, that our little Jacqueline is very much admired?
Her success has been extraordinary. It is not likely she will die an old
maid.”
The Baronne assented rather reluctantly.
“Wermant was speaking to me the other day,” went on M. de Nailles. “It
seems that that young Count de Cymier, who is always hanging around you,
by the way, has been making inquiries of him, in a manner that looks
as if it had some meaning, as to what is our fortune, our position. But
really, such a match seems too good to be true.”
“Why so?” said the Baronne. “I know more about it than you do, from
Blanche de Villegry. She gave me to understand that her cousin was much
struck by Jacqueline at first sight, and ever since she does nothing
but talk to me of M. de Cymier--of his birth, his fortune, his
abilities--the charming young fellow seems gifted with everything.
He could be Secretary of Legation, if he liked to quit Paris: In the
meantime attache to an Embassy looks very well on a card. Attache to the
Ministry of the Foreign Affairs does not seem so good. Jacqueline would
be a countess, possibly an ambassadress. What would you think of that!”
Madame de Nailles, who understood policy much better than her husband,
had suddenly become a convert to opportunism, and had made a change of
base. Not being able to devise a plan by which to suppress her young
rival, she had begun to think that her best way to get rid of her would
be by promoting her marriage. The little girl was fast developing into a
woman--a woman who would certainly not consent quietly to be set aside.
Well, then, it would be best to dispose of her in so natural a way. When
Jacqueline’s slender and graceful figure and the freshness of her bloom
were no longer brought into close comparison with her own charms, she
felt she should appear much younger, and should recover some of
her prestige; people would be less likely to remark her increasing
stoutness, or the red spots on her face, increased by the salt air which
was so favorable to young girls’ complexions. Yes, Jacqueline must be
married; that was the resolution to which Madame de Nailles had come
after several nights of sleeplessness. It was her fixed idea, replacing
in her brain that other fixed idea which, willingly or unwillingly, she
saw she must give up--the idea of keeping her stepdaughter in the shade.
“Countess! Ambassadress!” repeated M. de Nailles, with rather a
melancholy smile. “You are going too fast, my dear Clotilde. I don’t
doubt that Wermant gave the best possible account of our situation; but
when it comes to saying what I could give her as a dot, I am very much
afraid. We should have, in that case, to fall back on Fred, for I
have not told you everything. This morning Madame d’Argy, who has done
nothing but weep since her boy went away, and who, she says, never will
get accustomed to the life of misery and anxiety she will lead as a
sailor’s mother, exclaimed, as she was talking to me: ‘Ah! there is but
one way of keeping him at Lizerolles, of having him live there as the
D’Argys have lived before him, quietly, like a good landlord, and
that would be to give him your daughter; with her he would be entirely
satisfied.’”
“Ah! so that is the reason why she asked whether Jacqueline might not
stay with her when we go to Italy! She wishes to court her by proxy. But
I don’t think she will succeed. Monsieur de Cymier has the best chance.”
“Do you suppose the child suspects--”
“That he admires her? My dear friend, we have to do with a very
sharp--sighted young person. Nothing escapes the observation of
Mademoiselle ‘votre fille’.”
And Madame de Nailles, in her turn, smiled somewhat bitterly.
“Well,” said Jacqueline’s father, after a few moments’ reflection, “it
may be as well that she should weigh for and against a match before
deciding. She may spend several years that are difficult and dangerous
trying to find out what she wants and to make up her mind.”
“Several years?”
“Hang it! You would not marry off Jacqueline at once?”
“Bah! many a girl, practically not as old as she, is married at sixteen
or seventeen.”
“Why! I fancied you thought so differently!”
“Our ways of thinking are sometimes altered by events, especially when
they are founded upon sincere and disinterested affection.”
“Like that of good parents, such as we are,” added M. de Nailles, ending
her sentence with an expression of grateful emotion.
For one moment the Baronne paled under this compliment.
“What did you say to Madame d’Argy?” she hastened to ask.
“I said we must give the young fellow’s beard time to grow.”
“Yes, that was right. I prefer Monsieur de Cymier a hundred times over.
Still, if nothing better offers--a bird in the hand, you know--”
Madame de Nailles finished her sentence by a wave of her fan.
“Oh! our bird in the hand is not to be despised. A very handsome
estate--”
“Where Jacqueline would be bored to death. I should rather see her
radiant at some foreign court. Let me manage it. Let me bring her out.
Give me carte blanche and let me have some society this winter.”
Madame de Nailles, whether she knew it or not--probably she did, for she
had great skill in reading the thoughts of others--was acting precisely
in accordance with the wishes or the will of Jacqueline, who, having
found much enjoyment in the dances at the Casino, had made up her
mind that she meant to come out into society before any of her young
companions.
“I shall not have to beg and implore her,” she said to herself,
anticipating the objections of her stepmother. “I shall only have
politely to let her suspect that such a thing may have occurred as
having had a listener at a door. I paid dearly enough for this hold over
her. I have no scruple in using it.”
Madame de Nailles was not mistaken in her stepdaughter; she was very far
advanced beyond her age, thanks to the cruel wrong that had been done
her by the loss of her trust in her elders and her respect for them. Her
heart had had its past, though she was still hardly more than a child--a
sad past, though its pain was being rapidly effaced. She now thought
about it only at intervals. Time and circumstances were operating on her
as they act upon us generally; only in her case more quickly than usual,
which produced in her character and feelings phenomena that might have
seemed curious to an observer. She was something of a woman, something
of a child, something of a philosopher. At night, when she was dancing
with Wermant, or Cymier, or even Talbrun, or on horseback, an exercise
which all the Blues were wild about, she was an audacious flirt, a girl
up to anything; and in the morning, at low tide, she might be seen, with
her legs and feet bare, among the children, of whom there were many on
the sands, digging ditches, making ramparts, constructing towers and
fortifications in wet sand, herself as much amused as if she had been
one of the babies themselves. There was screaming and jumping, and
rushing out of reach of the waves which came up ready to overthrow the
most complicated labors of the little architects, rough romping of all
kinds, enough to amaze and disconcert a lover.
But no one could have guessed at the thoughts which, in the midst of all
this fun and frolic, were passing through the too early ripened mind of
Jacqueline. She was thinking that many things to which we attach great
value and importance in this world are as easily swept away as the sand
barriers raised against the sea by childish hands; that everywhere there
must be flux and reflux, that the beach the children had so dug up would
soon become smooth as a mirror, ready for other little ones to dig it
over again, tempting them to work, and yet discouraging their industry.
Her heart, she thought, was like the sand, ready for new impressions.
The elegant form of M. de Cymier slightly overshadowed it, distinct
among other shadows more confused.
And Jacqueline said to herself with a smile, exactly what her father and
Madame de Nailles had said to each other:
“Countess!--who knows? Ambassadress! Perhaps--some day--”