She was more beautiful than ever, and her first exclamation on seeing
him was intended to be flattering: “Ah! Fred, how much you have
improved! But what a change! What an extraordinary change! Why, look at
him! He is still himself, but who would have thought it was Fred!”
He was not disconcerted, for he had acquired aplomb in his journeys
round the globe, but he gave her a glance of sad reproach, while Madame
de Nailles said, quietly:
“Yes, really--How are you, Fred? The tan on your face is very
becoming to you. You have broadened at the shoulders, and are now a
man--something more than a man, an experienced sailor, almost an old
seadog.”
And she laughed, but only softly, because a frank laugh would have shown
little wrinkles under her eyes and above her cheeks, which were getting
too large.
Her toilette, which was youthful, yet very carefully adapted to her
person, showed that she was by no means as yet “laid on the shelf,” as
Raoul Wermant elegantly said of her. She stood up, leaning over a table
covered with toys, which it was her duty to sell at the highest price
possible, for the place of a meeting so full of emotions for Fred was a
charity bazaar.
The moment he arrived in Paris the young officer had been, so to speak,
seized by the collar. He had found a great glazed card, bidding him
to attend this fair, in a fashionable quarter, and forthwith he had
forgotten his resolution of not going near the Nailles for a long time.
“This is not the same thing,” he said to himself. “One must not let
one’s self be supposed to be stingy.” So with these thoughts he went to
the bazaar, very glad in his secret heart to have an excuse for breaking
his resolution.
The fair was for the benefit of sufferers from a fire--somewhere or
other. In our day multitudes of people fall victims to all kinds of
dreadful disasters, explosions of boilers, explosions of fire-damp, of
everything that can explode, for the agents of destruction seem to be in
a state of unnatural excitement as well as human beings. Never before,
perhaps, have inanimate things seemed so much in accordance with the
spirit of the times. Fred found a superb placard, the work of Cheret, a
pathetic scene in a mine, banners streaming in the air, with the words
‘Bazar de Charite’ in gold letters on a red ground, and the courtyard of
the mansion where the fair was held filled with more carriages than one
sees at a fashionable wedding. In the vestibule many footmen were in
attendance, the chasseurs of an Austrian ambassador, the great hulking
fellows of the English embassy, the gray-liveried servants of old
Rozenkranz, with their powdered heads, the negro man belonging to Madame
Azucazillo, etc., etc. At each arrival there was a frou-frou of satin
and lace, and inside the sales room was a hubbub like the noise in an
aviary. Fred, finding himself at once in the full stream of Parisian
life, but for the moment not yet part of it, indulged in some of those
philosophic reflections to which he had been addicted on shipboard.
Each of the tables showed something of the tastes, the character, the
peculiarities of the lady who had it in charge. Madame Sterny, who had
the most beautiful hands in the world, had undertaken to sell gloves,
being sure that the gentlemen would be eager to buy if she would only
consent to try them on; Madame de Louisgrif, the ‘chanoiness’, whose
extreme emaciation was not perceived under a sort of ecclesiastical
cape, had an assortment of embroideries and objects of devotion,
intended only for ladies--and indeed for only the most serious among
them; for the table that held umbrellas, parasols and canes suited to
all ages and both sexes, a good, upright little lady had been chosen.
Her only thought was how much money she could make by her sales. Madame
Strahlberg, the oldest of the Odinskas, obviously expected to sell only
to gentlemen; her table held pyramids of cigars and cigarettes, but
nothing else was in the corner where she presided, supple and frail,
not handsome, but far more dangerous than if she had been, with her
unfathomable way of looking at you with her light eyes set deep under
her eyebrows, eyes that she kept half closed, but which were yet so
keen, and the cruel smile that showed her little sharp teeth. Her dress
was of black grenadine embroidered with silver. She wore half mourning
as a sort of announcement that she was a widow, in hopes that this
might put a stop to any wicked gossip which should assert that Count
Strahlberg was still living, having got a divorce and been very glad
to get it. Yet people talked about her, but hardly knew what to bring
against her, because, though anything might be suspected, nothing was
known. She was received and even sought after in the best society, on
account of her wonderful talents, which she employed in a manner as
perverse as everything else about her, but which led some people to call
her the ‘Judic des salons’. Wanda Strahlberg was now holding between her
lips, which were artificially red, in contrast to the greenish paleness
of her face, which caused others to call her a vampire, one of the
cigarettes she had for sale. With one hand, she was playing, graceful as
a cat, with her last package of regalias, tied with green ribbon, which,
when offered to the highest bidder, brought an enormous sum. Her sister
Colette was selling flowers, like several other young girls, but while
for the most part these waited on their customers in silence, she was
full of lively talk, and as unblushing in her eagerness to sell as a
‘bouquetiere’ by profession. She had grown dangerously pretty. Fred was
dazzled when she wanted to fasten a rose into his buttonhole, and then,
as he paid for it, gave him another, saying: “And here is another thrown
in for old acquaintance’ sake.”
“Charity seems to cover many things,” thought the young man as he
withdrew from her smiles and her glances, but yet he had seen nothing so
attractive among the black, yellow, green or tattooed ladies about whom
Jacqueline had been pleased to tease him.
“Fred!”
It was Jacqueline’s voice that arrested him. It was sharp and almost
angry. She, too, was selling flowers, while at the same time she was
helping Madame de Nailles with her toys; but she was selling with that
decorum and graceful reserve which custom prescribes for young girls.
“Fred, I do hope you will wear no roses but mine. Those you have are
frightful. They make you look like a village bridegroom. Take out those
things; come! Here is a pretty boutonniere, and I will fasten it much
better in your buttonhole--let me.”
In vain did he try to seem cold to her; his heart thawed in spite of
himself. She held him so charmingly by the lapel of his coat, touching
his cheek with the tip end of an aigrette which set so charmingly on the
top of the most becoming of fur caps which she wore. Her hair was turned
up now, showing her beautiful neck, and he could see little rebellious
hairs curling at their own will over her pure, soft skin, while she,
bending forward, was engaged in his service. He admired, too, her
slender waist, only recently subjected to the restraint of a corset.
He forgave her on the spot. At this moment a man with brown hair, tall,
elegant, and with his moustache turned up at the ends, after the old
fashion of the Valois, revived recently, came hurriedly up to the table
of Madame de Nailles. Fred felt that that inimitable moustache reduced
his not yet abundant beard to nothing.
“Mademoiselle Jacqueline,” said the newcomer, “Madame de Villegry has
sent me to beg you to help her at the buffet. She can not keep pace with
her customers, and is asking for volunteers.”
All this was uttered with a familiar assurance which greatly shocked the
young naval man.
“You permit me, Madame?”
The Baroness bowed with a smile, which said, had he chosen to interpret
it, “I give you permission to carry her off now--and forever, if you
wish it.”
At that moment she was placing in the half-unwilling arms of Hubert
Marien an enormous rubber balloon and a jumping-jack, in return for
five Louis which he had laid humbly on her table. But Jacqueline had
not waited for her stepmother’s permission; she let herself be borne
off radiant on the arm of the important personage who had come for her,
while Colette, who perhaps had remarked the substitution for her two
roses, whispered in Fred’s ear, in atone of great significance “Monsieur
de Cymier.”
The poor fellow started, like a man suddenly awakened from a happy
dream to face the most unwelcome of realities. Impelled by that natural
longing, that we all have, to know the worst, he went toward the buffet,
affecting a calmness which it cost him a great effort to maintain. As
he went along he mechanically gave money to each of the ladies whom he
knew, moving off without waiting for their thanks or stopping to choose
anything from their tables. He seemed to feel the floor rock under his
feet, as if he had been walking the deck of a vessel. At last he reached
a recess decorated with palms, where, in a robe worthy of ‘Peau d’Ane’
in the story, and absolutely a novelty in the world of fashions robe all
embroidered with gold and rubies, which glittered with every movement
made by the wearer--Madame de Villegry was pouring out Russian tea
and Spanish chocolate and Turkish coffee, while all kinds of deceitful
promises of favor shone in her eyes, which wore a certain tenderness
expressive of her interest in charity. A party of young nymphs formed
the court of this fair goddess, doing their best to lend her their aid.
Jacqueline was one of them, and, at the moment Fred approached, she was
offering, with the tips of her fingers, a glass of champagne to M.
de Cymier, who at the same time was eagerly trying to persuade her to
believe something, about which she was gayly laughing, while she shook
her head. Poor Fred, that he might hear, and suffer, drank two mouthfuls
of sherry which he could hardly swallow.
“One who was really charitable would not hesitate,” said M. de Cymier,
“especially when every separate hair would be paid for if you chose.
Just one little curl--for the sake of the poor. It is very often done:
anything is allowable for the sake of the poor.”
“Maybe it is because, as you say, that it is very often done that I
shall not do it,” said Jacqueline, still laughing. “I have made up my
mind never to do what others have done before me.”
“Well, we shall see,” said M. de Cymier, pretending to threaten her.
And her young head was thrown back in a burst of inextinguishable
laughter.
Fred fled, that he might not be tempted to make a disturbance. When he
found himself again in the street, he asked himself where he should
go. His anger choked him; he felt he could not keep his resentment to
himself, and yet, however angry he might be with Jacqueline, he would
have been unwilling to hear his mother give utterance to the very
sentiments that he was feeling, or to harsh judgments, of which he
preferred to keep the monopoly. It came into his mind that he would pay
a little visit to Giselle, who, of all the people he knew, was the least
likely to provoke a quarrel. He had heard that Madame de Talbrun did not
go out, being confined to her sofa by much suffering, which, it might be
hoped, would soon come to an end; and the certainty that he should find
her if he called at once decided him. Since he had been in Paris he had
done nothing but leave cards. This time, however, he was sure that the
lady upon whom he called would be at home. He was taken at once into the
young wife’s boudoir, where he found her very feeble, lying back upon
her cushions, alone, and working at some little bits of baby-clothes. He
was not slow to perceive that she was very glad to see him. She flushed
with pleasure as he came into the room, and, dropping her sewing,
held out to him two little, thin hands, white as wax. “Take that
footstool--sit down there--what a great, great pleasure it is to see you
back again!” She was more expansive than she had been formerly; she had
gained a certain ease which comes from intercourse with the world, but
how delicate she seemed! Fred for a moment looked at her in silence,
she seemed so changed as she lay there in a loose robe of pale blue
cashmere, whose train drawn over her feet made her look tall as it
stretched to the end of the gilded couch, round which Giselle had
collected all the little things required by an invalid--bottles, boxes,
work-bag, dressing-case, and writing materials.
“You see,” she said, with her soft smile, “I have plenty to occupy
me, and I venture to be proud of my work and to think I am creating
marvels.”
As she spoke she turned round on her closed hand a cap that seemed
microscopic to Fred.
“What!” he cried, “do you expect him to be small enough to wear that!”
“Him! you said him; and I am sure you will be right. I know it will be a
boy,” replied Giselle, eagerly, her fair face brightened by these words.
“I have some that are still smaller. Look!” and she lifted up a pile of
things trimmed with ribbons and embroidery. “See; these are the first!
Ah! I lie here and fancy how he will look when he has them on. He will
be sweet enough to eat. Only his papa wants us to give him a name that
I think is too long for him, because it has always been in the
family--Enguerrand.”
“His name will be longer than himself, I should say, judging by the
dimensions of this cap,” said Fred, trying to laugh.
“Bah!” replied Giselle, gayly, “but we can get over it by calling him
Gue-gue or Ra-ra. What do you think? The difficulty is that names of
that kind are apt to stick to a boy for fifty years, and then they seem
ridiculous. Now a pretty abbreviation like Fred is another matter. But
I forget they have brought up my chocolate. Please ring, and let them
bring you a cup. We will take our luncheon together, as we used to do.”
“Thank you, I have no appetite. I have just come from a certain buffet
where I lost it all.”
“Oh! I suppose you have been to the Bazaar--the famous Charity Fair! You
must have made a sensation there on your return, for I am told that the
gentlemen who are expected to spend the most are likely to send their
money, and not to show themselves. There are many complaints of it.”
“There were plenty of men round certain persons,” replied Fred, dryly.
“Madame de Villegry’s table was literally besieged.”
“Really! What, hers! You surprise me! So it was the good things she gave
you that make you despise my poor chocolate,” said Giselle, rising on
her elbow, to receive the smoking cup that a servant brought her on a
little silver salver.
“I didn’t take much at her table,” said Fred, ready to enter on his
grievances. “If you wish to know the reason why, I was too indignant to
eat or drink.”
“Indignant?”
“Yes, the word is not at all too strong. When one has passed whole
months away from what is unwholesome and artificial, such things as
make up life in Paris, one becomes a little like Alceste, Moliere’s
misanthrope, when one gets back to them. It is ridiculous at my age, and
yet if I were to tell you--”
“What?--you puzzle me. What can there be that is unwholesome in selling
things for the poor?”
“The poor! A pretty pretext! Was it to benefit the poor that that odious
Countess Strahlberg made all those disreputable grimaces? I have seen
kermesses got up by actresses, and, upon my word, they were good form in
comparison.”
“Oh! Countess Strahlberg! People have heard about her doings until they
are tired of them,” said Giselle, with that air of knowing everything
assumed by a young wife whose husband has told her all the current
scandals, as a sort of initiation.
“And her sister seems likely to be as bad as herself before long.”
“Poor Colette! She has been so badly brought up. It is not her fault.”
“But there’s Jacqueline,” cried Fred, in a sudden outburst, and already
feeling better because he could mention her name.
“Allons, donc! You don’t mean to say anything against Jacqueline?” cried
Giselle, clasping her hands with an air of astonishment. “What can she
have done to scandalize you--poor little dear?”
Fred paused for half a minute, then he drew the stool in the form of
an X, on which he was sitting, a little nearer to Giselle’s sofa, and,
lowering his voice, told her how Jacqueline had acted under his very
eyes. As he went on, watching as he spoke the effect his words produced
upon Giselle, who listened as if slightly amused by his indignation, the
case seemed not nearly so bad as he had supposed, and a delicious sense
of relief crept over him when she to whom he told his wrongs after
hearing him quietly to the end, said, smiling:
“And what then? There is no great harm in all that. Would you have had
her refuse to go with the gentleman Madame de Villegry had sent to fetch
her? And why, may I ask, should she not have done her best to help by
pouring out champagne? An air put on to please is indispensable to a
woman, if she wishes to sell anything. Good Heavens! I don’t approve any
more than you do of all these worldly forms of charity, but this kind of
thing is considered right; it has come into fashion. Jacqueline had the
permission of her parents, and I really can’t see any good reason why
you should complain of her. Unless--why not tell me the whole truth,
Fred? I know it--don’t we always know what concerns the people that we
care for? And I might possibly some day be of use to you. Say! don’t you
think you are--a little bit jealous?”
Less encouragement than this would have sufficed to make him open his
heart to Giselle. He was delighted that some woman was willing he should
confide in her. And what was more, he was glad to have it proved that
he had been all wrong. A quarter of an hour later Giselle had comforted
him, happy herself that it had been in her power to undertake a task of
consolation, a work in which, with sweet humility, she felt herself at
ease. On the great stage of life she knew now she should never play any
important part, any that would bring her greatly into view. But she felt
that she was made to be a confidant, one of those perfect confidants
who never attempt to interfere rashly with the course of events, but
who wait upon the ways of Providence, removing stones, and briers
and thorns, and making everything turn out for the best in the end.
Jacqueline, she said, was so young! A little wild, perhaps, but what
a treasure! She was all heart! She would need a husband worthy of her,
such a man as Fred. Madame d’Argy, she knew, had already said something
on the subject to her father. But it would have to be the Baroness that
Fred must bring over to their views; the Baroness was acquiring more and
more influence over her husband, who seemed to be growing older every
day. M. de Nailles had evidently much, very much upon his mind. It was
said in business circles that he had for some time past been given to
speculation. Oscar said so. If that were the case, many of Jacqueline’s
suitors might withdraw. Not all men were so disinterested as Fred.
“Oh! As to her dot--what do I care for her dot?” cried the young man. “I
have enough for two, if she would only be satisfied to live quietly at
Lizerolles!”
“Yes,” said the judicious little matron, nodding her head, “but who
would like to marry a midshipman? Make haste and be a lieutenant, or an
ensign.”
She smiled at herself for having made the reward depend upon exertion,
with a sort of maternal instinct. It was the same instinct that would
lead her in the future to promise Enguerrand a sugar-plum if he said his
lesson. “Nobody will steal your Jacqueline till you are ready to carry
her off. Besides, if there were any danger I could give you timely
warning.”
“Ah! Giselle, if she only had your kind heart--your good sense.”
“Do you think I am better and more reasonable than other people? In
what way? I have done as so many other girls do; I have married without
knowing well what I was doing.”
She stopped short, fearing she might have said too much, and indeed Fred
looked at her anxiously.
“You don’t regret it, do you?”
“You must ask Monsieur de Talbrun if he regrets it,” she said, with a
laugh. “It must be hard on him to have a sick wife, who knows little of
what is passing outside of her own chamber, who is living on her reserve
fund of resources--a very poor little reserve fund it is, too!”
Then, as if she thought that Fred had been with her long enough, she
said: “I would ask you to stay and see Monsieur de Talbrun, but he won’t
be in, he dines at his club. He is going to see a new play tonight which
they say promises to be very good.”
“What! Will he leave you alone all the evening?”
“Oh! I am very glad he should find amusement. Just think how long it is
that I have been pinned down here! Poor Oscar!”