The departure of Frederic d’Argy for Tonquin occasioned a break in the
intercourse between his mother and the family of De Nailles. The wails
of Hecuba were nothing to the lamentations of poor Madame d’Argy; the
unreasonableness of her wrath and the exaggeration in her reproaches
hindered even Jacqueline from feeling all the remorse she might
otherwise have felt for her share in Fred’s departure. She told her
father, who the first time in her life addressed her with some severity,
that she could not be expected to love all the young men who might
threaten to go to the wars, or to fling themselves from fourth-story
windows, for her sake.
“It was very indelicate and inconsiderate of Fred to tell any one that
it was my fault that he was doing anything so foolish,” she said, with
true feminine deceit, “but he has taken the very worst possible means
to make me care for him. Everybody has too much to say about this matter
which concerns only him and me. Even Giselle thought proper to write me
a sermon!”
And she gave vent to her feelings in an exclamation of three syllables
that she had learned from the Odinskas, which meant: “I don’t care!” (je
m’en moque).
But this was not true. She cared very much for Giselle’s good opinion,
and for Madame d’Argy’s friendship. She suffered much in her secret
heart at the thought of having given so much pain to Fred. She guessed
how deep it was by the step to which it had driven him. But there was in
her secret soul something more than all the rest, it was a puerile, but
delicious satisfaction in feeling her own importance, in having been
able to exercise an influence over one heart which might possibly extend
to that of M. de Cymier. She thought he might be gratified by knowing
that she had driven a young man to despair, if he guessed for whose sake
she had been so cruel. He knew it, of course. Madame de Nailles took
care that he should not be ignorant of it, and the pleasure he took
in such a proof of his power over a young heart was not unlike that
pleasure Jacqueline experienced in her coquetry--which crushed her
better feelings. He felt proud of the sacrifice this beautiful girl had
made for his sake, though he did not consider himself thereby committed
to any decision, only he felt more attached to her than ever. Ever since
the day when Madame de Villegry had first introduced him at the house
of Madame de Nailles, he had had great pleasure in going there. The
daughter of the house was more and more to his taste, but his liking for
her was not such as to carry him beyond prudence. “If I chose,” he would
say to himself after every time he met her, “if I chose I could own that
jewel. I have only to stretch out my hand and have it given me.” And
the next morning, after going to sleep full of that pleasant thought, he
would awake glad to find that he was still as free as ever, and able
to carry on a flirtation with a woman of the world, which imposed no
obligations upon him, and yet at the same time make love to a young girl
whom he would gladly have married but for certain reports which were
beginning to circulate among men of business concerning the financial
position of M. de Nailles.
They said that he was withdrawing money from secure investments to
repair (or to increase) considerable losses made by speculation, and
that he operated recklessly on the Bourse. These rumors had already
withdrawn Marcel d’Etaples from the list of his daughter’s suitors. The
young fellow was a captain of Hussars, who had no scruple in declaring
the reason of his giving up his interest in the young lady. Gerard de
Cymier, more prudent, waited and watched, thinking it would be quite
time enough to go to the bottom of things when he found himself called
upon to make a decision, and greatly interested meantime in the daily
increase of Jacqueline’s beauty. It was evident she cared for him. After
all, it was doing the little thing no harm to let her live on in the
intoxication of vanity and hope, and to give her something to dwell upon
in her innocent dreams. Never did Gerard allow himself to overstep the
line he had marked out for himself; a glance, a slight pressure of the
hand, which might have been intentional, or have meant nothing, a few
ambiguous words in which an active imagination might find something to
dream about, a certain way of passing his arm round her slight waist
which would have meant much had it not been done in public to the sound
of music, were all the proofs the young diplomatist had ever given of
an attraction that was real so far as consisted with his complete
selfishness, joined to his professional prudence, and that systematic
habit of taking up fancies at any time for anything, which prevents each
fancy as it occurs from ripening into passion.
He alluded indirectly to Fred’s departure in a way that turned it
into ridicule. While playing a game of ‘boston’ he whispered into
Jacqueline’s ear something about the old-fashionedness and stupidity of
Paul and Virginia, and his opinion of “calf-love,” as the English call
an early attachment, and something about the right of every girl to know
a suitor long before she consents to marry him. He said he thought
that the days of courtship must be the most delightful in the life of a
woman, and that a man who wished to cut them short was a fellow without
delicacy or discretion!
From this Jacqueline drew the conclusion that he was not willing to
resemble such a fellow, and was more and more persuaded that there was
tenderness in the way he pressed her waist, and that his voice had the
softness of a caress when he spoke to her. He made many inquiries as to
what she liked and what she wished for in the future, as if his great
object in all things was to anticipate her wishes. As for his
intimacy with Madame de Villegry, Jacqueline thought nothing of it,
notwithstanding her habitual mistrust of those she called old women.
In the first place, Madame de Villegry was her own mistress, nothing
hindered them from having been married long ago had they wished it;
besides, had not Madame de Villegry brought the young man to their house
and let every one see, even Jacqueline herself, what was her object in
doing so? In this matter she was their ally, a most zealous and kind
ally, for she was continually advising her young friend as to what was
most becoming to her and how she might make herself most attractive to
men in general, with little covert allusions to the particular tastes of
Gerard, which she said she knew as well as if he had been her brother.
All this was lightly insinuated, but never insisted upon, with the tact
which stood Madame de Villegry in stead of talent, and which had enabled
her to perform some marvellous feats upon the tight-rope without losing
her balance completely. She, too, made fun of the tragic determination
of Fred, which all those who composed the society of the De Nailles had
been made aware of by the indiscreet lamentations of Madame d’Argy.
“Is not Jacqueline fortunate?” cried. Colette Odinska, who, herself
always on a high horse, looked on love in its tragic aspect, and would
have liked to resemble Marie Stuart as much as she could, “is she
not fortunate? She has had a man who has gone abroad to get himself
killed--and all for her!”
Colette imagined herself under the same circumstances, making the most
of a slain lover, with a crape veil covering her fair hair, her
mourning copied from that of her divorced sister, who wore her weeds so
charmingly, but who was getting rather tired of a single life.
As for Miss Kate Sparks and Miss Nora, they could not understand why
the breaking of half-a-dozen hearts should not be the prelude to every
marriage. That, they said with much conviction, was always the case in
America, and a girl was thought all the more of who had done so.
Jacqueline, however, thought more than was reasonable about the dangers
that the friend of her childhood was going to encounter through her
fault. Fred’s departure would have lent him a certain prestige, had
not a powerful new interest stepped in to divert her thoughts. Madame
d’Avrigny was getting up her annual private theatricals, and wanted
Jacqueline to take the principal part in the play, saying that she ought
to put her lessons in elocution to some use. The piece chosen was to
illustrate a proverb, and was entirely new. It was as unexceptionable
as it was amusing; the most severe critic could have found no fault with
its morality or with its moral, which turned on the eagerness displayed
by young girls nowadays to obtain diplomas. Scylla and Charybdis was
its name. Its story was that of a young bride, who, thinking to please
a husband, a stupid and ignorant man, was trying to obtain in secret a
high place in the examination at the Sorbonne--‘un brevet superieur’.
The husband, disquieted by the mystery, is at first suspicious, then
jealous, and then is overwhelmed with humiliation when he discovers that
his wife knows more of everything than himself. He ends by imploring her
to give up her higher education if she wishes to please him. The little
play had all the modern loveliness and grace which Octave Feuillet alone
can give, and it contained a lesson from which any one might profit;
which was by no means always the case with Madame d’Avrigny’s plays,
which too often were full of risky allusions, of critical situations,
and the like; likely, in short, to “sail too close to the wind,” as Fred
had once described them. But Madame d’Avrigny’s prime object was the
amusement of society, and society finds pleasure in things which,
if innocence understood them, would put her to the blush. This play,
however, was an exception. There had been very little to cut out this
time. Madame de Nailles had been asked to take the mother’s part, but
she declined, not caring to act such a character in a house where years
before in all her glory she had made a sensation as a young coquette. So
Madame d’Avrigny had to take the part herself, not sorry to be able
to superintend everything on the stage, and to prompt Dolly, if
necessary--Dolly, who had but four words to say, which she always
forgot, but who looked lovely in a little cap as a femme de chambre.
People had been surprised that M. de Cymier should have asked for the
part of the husband, a local magistrate, stiff and self-important, whom
everybody laughed at. Jacqueline alone knew why he had chosen it: it
would give him the opportunity of giving her two kisses. Of course
those kisses were to be reserved for the representation, but whether
intentionally or otherwise, the young husband ventured upon them at
every rehearsal, in spite of the general outcry--not, however, very
much in earnest, for it is well understood that in private theatricals
certain liberties may be allowed, and M. de Cymier had never been
remarkable for reserve when he acted at the clubs, where the female
parts were taken by ladies from the smaller theatres. In this school
he had acquired some reputation as an amateur actor. “Besides,” as he
remarked on making his apology, “we shall do it very awkwardly upon the
stage if we are not allowed to practise it beforehand.” Jacqueline burst
out laughing, and did not make much show of opposition. To play the part
of his wife, to hear him say to her, to respond with the affectionate
and familiar ‘toi’, was so amusing! It was droll to see her cut out her
husband in chemistry, history, and grammar, and make him confound La
Fontaine with Corneille. She had such a little air while doing it! And
at the close, when he said to her: “If I give you a pony to-morrow, and
a good hearty kiss this very minute, shall you be willing to give up
getting that degree?” she responded, with such gusto: “Indeed, I shall!”
and her manner was so eager, so boyish, so full of fun, that she was
wildly applauded, while Gerard embraced her as heartily as he liked, to
make up to himself for her having had, as his wife, the upper hand.
All this kissing threw him rather off his balance, and he might soon
have sealed his fate, had not a very sad event occurred, which restored
his self-possession.
The dress rehearsal was to take place one bright spring day at about
four o’clock in the afternoon. A large number of guests was assembled
at the house of Madame d’Avrigny. The performance had been much talked
about beforehand in society. The beauty, the singing, and the histrionic
powers of the principal actress had been everywhere extolled. Fully
conscious of what was expected of her, and eager to do herself credit in
every way, Jacqueline took advantage of Madame Strahlberg’s presence to
run over a little song, which she was to--sing between the acts and in
which she could see no meaning whatever. This little song, which, to
most of the ladies present, seemed simply idiotic, made the men in the
audience cry “Oh!” as if half-shocked, and then “Encore! Encore!” in a
sort of frenzy. It was a so-called pastoral effusion, in which Colinette
rhymed with herbette, and in which the false innocence of the eighteenth
century was a cloak for much indelicate allusion.
“I never,” said Jacqueline in self-defense, before she began the song,
“sang anything so stupid. And that is saying much when one thinks of all
the nonsensical words that people set to music! It’s a marvel how any
one can like this stuff. Do tell me what there is in it?” she added,
turning to Gerard, who was charmed by her ignorance.
Standing beside the grand piano, with her arms waving as she sang,
repeating, by the expression of her eyes, the question she had asked
and to which she had received no answer, she was singing the verses she
considered nonsense with as much point as if she had understood them,
thanks to the hints given her by Madame Strahlberg, who was playing her
accompaniment, when the entrance of a servant, who pronounced her name
aloud, made a sudden interruption. “Mademoiselle de Nailles is wanted at
home at once. Modeste has come for her.”
Madame d’Avrigny went out to say to the old servant: “She can not
possibly go home with you! It is only half an hour since she came. The
rehearsal is just beginning.”
But something Modeste said in answer made her give a little cry, full of
consternation. She came quickly back, and going up to Jacqueline:
“My dear,” she said, “you must go home at once--there is bad news, your
father is ill.”
“Ill?”
The solemnity of Madame d’Avrigny’s voice, the pity in her expression,
the affection with which she spoke and above all her total indifference
to the fate of her rehearsal, frightened Jacqueline. She rushed away,
not waiting to say good-by, leaving behind her a general murmur of “Poor
thing!” while Madame d’Avrigny, recovering from her first shock, was
already beginning to wonder--her instincts as an impresario coming
once more to the front--whether the leading part might not be taken by
Isabelle Ray. She would have to send out two hundred cards, at least,
and put off her play for another fortnight. What a pity! It seemed as if
misfortunes always happened just so as to interfere with pleasures.
The fiacre which had brought Modeste was at the door. The old nurse
helped her young lady into it.
“What has happened to papa?” cried Jacqueline, impetuously.
There was something horrible in this sudden transition from gay
excitement to the sharpest anxiety.
“Nothing--that is to say--he is very sick. Don’t tremble like that,
my darling-courage!” stammered Modeste, who was frightened by her
agitation.
“He was taken sick, you say. Where? How happened it?”
“In his study. Pierre had just brought him his letters. We thought we
heard a noise as if a chair had been thrown down, and a sort of cry. I
ran in to see. He was lying at full length on the floor.”
“And now? How is he now?”
“We did what we could for him. Madame came back. He is lying on his
bed.”
Modeste covered her face with her hands.
“You have not told me all. What else?”
“Mon Dieu! you knew your poor father had heart disease. The last time
the doctor saw him he thought his legs had swelled--”
“Had!” Jacqueline heard only that one word. It meant that the life of
her father was a thing of the past. Hardly waiting till the fiacre could
be stopped, she sprang out, rushed into the house, opened the door of
her father’s chamber, pushing aside a servant who tried to stop her,
and fell upon her knees beside the bed where lay the body of her father,
white and rigid.
“Papa! My poor dear--dear papa!”
The hand she pressed to her lips was as cold as ice. She raised her
frightened eyes to the face over which the great change from life to
death had passed. “What does it mean?” Jacqueline had never looked on
death before, but she knew this was not sleep.
“Oh, speak to me, papa! It is I--it is Jacqueline!”
Her stepmother tried to raise her--tried to fold her in her arms.
“Let me alone!” she cried with horror.
It seemed to her as if her father, where he was now, so far from her, so
far from everything, might have the power to look into human hearts, and
know the perfidy he had known nothing of when he was living. He might
see in her own heart, too, her great despair. All else seemed small and
of no consequence when death was present.
Oh! why had she not been a better daughter, more loving, more devoted?
why had she ever cared for anything but to make him happy?
She sobbed aloud, while Madame de Nailles, pressing her handkerchief to
her eyes, stood at the foot of the bed, and the doctor, too, was near,
whispering to some one whom Jacqueline at first had not perceived--the
friend of the family, Hubert Marien.
Marien there? Was it not natural that, so intimate as he had always been
with the dead man, he should have hastened to offer his services to the
widow?
Jacqueline flung herself upon her father’s corpse, as if to protect it
from profanation. She had an impulse to bear it away with her to some
desert spot where she alone could have wept over it.
She lay thus a long time, beside herself with grief.
The flowers which covered the bed and lay scattered on the floor, gave
a festal appearance to the death-chamber. They had been purchased for
a fete, but circumstances had changed their destination. That evening
there was to have been a reception in the house of M. de Nailles, but
the unexpected guest that comes without an invitation had arrived before
the music and the dancers.