CHAPTER XIII. THE STORM BREAKS

Monsieur de Nailles was dead, struck down suddenly by what is called

indefinitely heart-failure. The trouble in that organ from which he had

long suffered had brought on what might have been long foreseen, and

yet every one seemed, stupefied by the event. It came upon them like a

thunderbolt. It often happens so when people who are really ill persist

in doing all that may be done with safety by other persons. They

persuaded themselves, and those about them are easily persuaded, that

small remedies will prolong indefinitely a state of things which is

precarious to the last degree. Friends are ready to believe, when the

sufferer complains that his work is too hard for him, that he thinks too

much of his ailments and that he exaggerates trifles to which they

are well accustomed, but which are best known to him alone. When M. de

Nailles, several weeks before his death, had asked to be excused and to

stay at home instead of attending some large gathering, his wife, and

even Jacqueline, would try to convince him that a little amusement

would be good for him; they were unwilling to leave him to the repose he

needed, prescribed for him by the doctors, who had been unanimous that

he must “put down the brakes,” give less attention to business, avoid

late hours and over-exertion of all kinds. “And, above all,” said one

of the lights of science whom he had consulted recently about certain

feelings of faintness which were a bad symptom, “above all, you must

keep yourself from mental anxiety.”

How could he, when his fortune, already much impaired, hung on chances

as uncertain as those in a game of roulette? What nonsense! The failure

of a great financial company had brought about a crisis on the Bourse.

The news of the inability of Wermant, the ‘agent de change’, to meet

his engagements, had completed the downfall of M. de Nailles. Not only

death, but ruin, had entered that house, where, a few hours before,

luxury and opulence had seemed to reign.

“We don’t know whether there will be anything left for us to live upon,”

cried Madame de Nailles, with anguish, even while her husband’s body

lay in the chamber of death, and Jacqueline, kneeling beside it, wept,

unwilling to receive comfort or consolation.

She turned angrily upon her stepmother and cried:

“What matter? I have no father--there is nothing else I care for.”

But from that moment a dreadful thought, a thought she was ashamed of,

which made her feel a monster of selfishness, rose in her mind, do

what she would to hinder it. Jacqueline was sensible that she cared

for something else; great as was her sense of loss, a sort of reckless

curiosity seemed haunting her, while all the time she felt that her

great grief ought not to give place to anything besides. “How would

Gerard de Cymier behave in these circumstances?” She thought about it

all one dreadful night as she and Modeste, who was telling her beads

softly, sat in the faint light of the death-chamber. She thought of it

at dawn, when, after one of those brief sleeps which come to the young

under all conditions, she resumed with a sigh a sense of surrounding

realities. Almost in the same instant she thought: “My dear father will

never wake again,” and “Does he love me?--does he now wish me to be his

wife?--will he take me away?” The devil, which put this thought into

her heart, made her eager to know the answer to these questions. He

suggested how dreadful life with her stepmother would be if no means of

escape were offered her. He made her foresee that her stepmother would

marry again--would marry Marien. “But I shall not be there!” she cried,

“I will not countenance such an infamy!” Oh, how she hoped Gerard de

Cymier loved her! The hypocritical tears of Madame de Nailles disgusted

her. She could not bear to have such false grief associated with her

own.

Men in black, with solemn faces, came and bore away the body, no longer

like the form of the father she had loved. He had gone from her forever.

Pompous funeral rites, little in accordance with the crash that soon

succeeded them, were superintended by Marien, who, in the absence

of near relatives, took charge of everything. He seemed to be deeply

affected, and behaved with all possible kindness and consideration to

Jacqueline, who could not, however, bring herself to thank him, or even

to look at him. She hated him with an increase of resentment, as if the

soul of her dead father, who now knew the truth, had passed into her

own.

Meantime, M. de Cymier took care to inform himself of the state of

things. It was easy enough to do so. All Paris was talking of the

shipwreck in which life and fortune had been lost by a man whose

kindliness as a host at his wife’s parties every one had appreciated.

That was what came, people said, of striving after big dividends! The

house was to be sold, with the horses, the pictures, and the furniture.

What a change for his poor wife and daughter! There were others who

suffered by the Wermant crash, but those were less interesting than

the De Nailles. M. de Belvan found himself left by his father-in-law’s

failure with a wife on his hands who not only had not a sou, but who was

the daughter of an ‘agent de change’ who had behaved dishonorably.

This was a text for dissertations on the disgrace of marrying for money;

those who had done the same thing, minus the same consequences, being

loudest in reprobating alliances of that kind. M. de Cymier listened

attentively to such talk, looking and saying the right things, and as

he heard more and more about the deplorable condition of M. de Nailles’s

affairs, he congratulated himself that a prudent presentiment had kept

him from asking the hand of Jacqueline. He had had vague doubts as to

the firm foundation of the opulence which made so charming a frame for

her young beauty; it seemed to him as if she were now less beautiful

than he had imagined her; the enchantment she had exercised upon him

was thrown off by simple considerations of good sense. And yet he gave

a long sigh of regret when he thought she was unattainable except by

marriage. He, however, thanked heaven that he had not gone far enough

to have compromised himself with her. The most his conscience

could reproach him with was an occasional imprudence in moments of

forgetfulness; no court of honor could hold him bound to declare himself

her suitor. The evening that he made up his mind to this he wrote two

letters, very nearly alike; one was to Madame d’Avrigny, the other to

Madame de Nailles, announcing that, having received orders to join the

Embassy to which he was attached at Vienna, he was about to depart at

once, with great regret that he should not be able to take leave of any

one. To Madame d’Avrigny he made apologies for having to give up his

part in her theatricals; he entreated Madame de Nailles to accept both

for herself and for Mademoiselle Jacqueline his deepest condolences and

the assurance of his sympathy. The manner in which this was said was all

it ought to have been, except that it might have been rather more brief.

M. de Cymier said more than was necessary about his participation in

their grief, because he was conscious of a total lack of sympathy. He

begged the ladies would forgive him if, from feelings of delicacy and a

sense of the respect due to a great sorrow, he did not, before leaving

Paris, which he was about do to probably for a long time, personally

present to them ‘ses hommages attristes’. Then followed a few lines in

which he spoke of the pleasant recollections he should always retain of

the hospitality he had enjoyed under M. de Nailles’s roof, in a way

that gave them clearly to understand that he had no expectation of ever

entering their family on a more intimate footing.

Madame de Nailles received this letter just as she had had a

conversation with a man of business, who had shown her how complete was

the ruin for which in a great measure she herself was responsible. She

had no longer any illusions as to her position. When the estate had been

settled there would be nothing left but poverty, not only for herself,

who, having brought her husband no dot, had no right to consider herself

wronged by the bankruptcy, but for Jacqueline, whose fortune, derived

from her mother, had suffered under her father’s management (there

are such men--unfaithful guardians of a child’s property, but yet good

fathers) in every way in which it was possible to evade the provisions

of the Code intended to protect the rights of minor children. In the

little salon so charmingly furnished, where never before had sorrow or

sadness been discussed, Madame de Nailles poured out her complaints to

her stepdaughter and insisted upon plans of strict economy, when M. de

Cymier’s letter was brought in.

“Read!” said the Baroness, handing the strange document to Jacqueline,

after she had read it through.

Then she leaned back in her chair with a gesture which signified: “This

is the last straw!” and remained motionless, apparently overwhelmed,

with her face covered by one hand, but furtively watching the face of

the girl so cruelly forsaken.

That face told nothing, for pride supplies some sufferers with necessary

courage. Jacqueline sat for some time with her eyes fixed on the

decisive adieu which swept away what might have been her secret hope.

The paper did not tremble in her hand, a half-smile of contempt passed

over her mouth. The answer to the restless question that had intruded

itself upon her in the first moments of her grief was now before her.

Its promptness, its polished brutality, had given her a shock, but not

the pain she had expected. Perhaps her great grief--the real, the true,

the grief death brings--recovered its place in her heart, and prevented

her from feeling keenly any secondary emotion. Perhaps this man, who

could pay court to her in her days of happiness and disappear when the

first trouble came, seemed to her not worth caring for.

She silently handed back the letter to her stepmother.

“No more than I expected,” said the Baroness.

“Indeed?” replied Jacqueline with complete indifference. She wished to

give no opening to any expressions of sympathy on the part of Madame de

Nailles.

“Poor Madame d’Avrigny,” she added, “has bad luck; all her actors seem

to be leaving her.”

This speech was the vain bravado of a young soldier going into action.

The poor child betrayed herself to the experienced woman, trained either

to detect or to practise artifice, and who found bitter amusement in

watching the girl’s assumed ‘sang-froid’. But the mask fell off at the

first touch of genuine sympathy. When Giselle, forgetful of a certain

coolness between them ever since Fred’s departure, came to clasp her

in her arms, she showed only her true self, a girl suffering all the

bitterness of a cruel, humiliating desertion. Long talks ensued between

the friends, in which Jacqueline poured into Giselle’s ear her sad

discoveries in the past, her sorrows and anxieties in the present, and

her vague plans for the future. “I must go away,” she said; “I must

escape somewhere; I can not go on living with Madame de Nailles--I

should go mad, I should be tempted every day to upbraid her with her

conduct.”

Giselle made no attempt to curb an excitement which she knew would

resist all she could say to calm it. She feigned agreement, hoping

thereby to increase her future influence, and advised her friend to seek

in a convent the refuge that she needed. But she must do nothing rashly;

she should only consider it a temporary retreat whose motive was a wish

to remain for a while within reach of religious consolation. In that way

she would give people nothing to talk about, and her step mother could

not be offended. It was never of any use to get out of a difficulty by

breaking all the glass windows with a great noise, and good resolutions

are made firmer by being matured in quietness. Such were the lessons

Giselle herself had been taught by the Benedictine nuns, who, however

deficient they might be in the higher education of women, knew at least

how to bring up young girls with a view to making them good wives.

Giselle illustrated this day by day in her relations to a husband as

disagreeable as a husband well could be, a man of small intelligence,

who was not even faithful to her. But she did not cite herself as an

example. She never talked about herself, or her own difficulties.

“You are an angel of sense and goodness,” sobbed Jacqueline. “I will do

whatever you wish me to do.”

“Count upon me--count upon all your friends,” said Madame de Talbrun,

tenderly.

And then, enumerating the oldest and the truest of these friends, she

unluckily named Madame d’Argy. Jacqueline drew herself back at once:

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” she cried, “don’t mention them to me!”

Already a comparison between Fred’s faithful affection and Gerard

de Cymier’s desertion had come into her mind, but she had refused to

entertain it, declaring resolutely to herself that she never should

repent her refusal. She was sore, she was angry with all men, she wished

all were like Cymier or like Marien, that she might hate every one of

them; she came to the conclusion in her heart of hearts that all of

them, even the best, if put to the proof, would turn out selfish. She

liked to think so--to believe in none of them. Thus it happened that an

unexpected visit from Fred’s mother, among those that she received in

her first days of orphanhood, was particularly agreeable to her.

Madame d’Argy, on hearing of the death and of the ruin of M. de Nailles,

was divided by two contradictory feelings. She clearly saw the hand of

Providence in what had happened: her son was in the squadron on its

way to attack Formosa; he was in peril from the climate, in peril from

Chinese bullets, and assuredly those who had brought him into peril

could not be punished too severely; on the other hand, the last mail

from Tonquin had brought her one of those great joys which always

incline us to be merciful. Fred had so greatly distinguished himself

in a series of fights upon the river Min that he had been offered his

choice between the Cross of the Legion of Honor or promotion. He told

his mother now that he had quite recovered from a wound he had received

which had brought him some glory, but which he assured her had done him

no bodily harm, and he repeated to her what he would not tell her at

first, some words of praise from Admiral Courbet of more value in his

eyes than any reward.

Triumphant herself, and much moved by pity for Jacqueline, Madame d’Argy

felt as if she must put an end to a rupture which could not be kept up

when a great sorrow had fallen on her old friends, besides which she

longed to tell every one, those who had been blind and ungrateful in

particular, that Fred had proved himself a hero. So Jacqueline and her

stepmother saw her arrive as if nothing had ever come between them.

There were kisses and tears, and a torrent of kindly meant questions,

affectionate explanations, and offers of service. But Fred’s mother

could not help showing her own pride and happiness to those in sorrow.

They congratulated her with sadness. Madame d’Argy would have liked

to think that the value of what she had lost was now made plain to

Jacqueline. And if it caused her one more pang--what did it matter?

He and his mother had suffered too. It was the turn of others. God

was just. Resentment, and kindness, and a strange mixed feeling of

forgiveness and revenge contended together in the really generous

heart of Madame d’Argy, but that heart was still sore within her.

Pity, however, carried the day, and had it not been for the irritating

coldness of “that little hard-hearted thing,” as she called Jacqueline,

she would have entirely forgiven her. She never suspected that

the exaggerated reserve of manner that offended her was owing to

Jacqueline’s dread (commendable in itself) of appearing to wish in her

days of misfortune for the return of one she had rejected in the time of

prosperity.

In spite of the received opinion that society abandons those who are

overtaken by misfortune, all the friends of the De Nailles flocked

to offer their condolences to the widow and the orphan with warm

demonstrations of interest. Curiosity, a liking to witness, or to

experience, emotion, the pleasure of being able to tell what has been

seen and heard, to find out new facts and repeat them again to others,

joined to a sort of vague, commonplace, almost intrusive pity, are

sentiments, which sometimes in hours of great disaster, produce what

appears to wear the look of sympathy. A fortnight after M. de Nailles’s

death, between the acts of Scylla and Charybdis, the principal parts in

which were taken by young d’Etaples and Isabelle Ray, the company, as

it ate ices, was glibly discussing the real drama which had produced

in their own elegant circle much of the effect a blow has upon an

ant-hill--fear, agitation, and a tumultuous rush to the scene of the

disaster.

Great indignation was expressed against the man who had risked the

fortune of his family in speculation. Oh! the thing had been going

on for a long while. His fortune had been gradually melting away;

Grandchaux was loaded down with mortgages and would bring almost nothing

at a forced sale.

Everybody forgot that had M. de Nailles’s speculations been successful

they would have been called matters of business, conducted with great

ability on a large scale. When a performer falls from the tightrope,

who remembers all the times he has not failed? It is simply said that he

fell from his own carelessness.

“The poor Baroness is touchingly resigned,” said Madame de Villegry,

with a deep sigh; “and heaven knows how many other cares she has besides

the loss of money! I don’t mean only the death of her husband--and you

know how much they were attached to each other--I am speaking of that

unaccountable resolution of Jacqueline’s.”

Madame d’Avrigny here came forward with her usual equanimity which

nothing disturbed, unless it were something which interfered with the

success of her salon.

She was of course very sorry for her friends in trouble, but the

vicissitudes that had happened to her theatricals she had more at heart.

“After all,” she said, “the first act did not go off badly, did it? The

musical part made up for the rest. That divine Strahlberg is ready for

any emergency. How well she sang that air of ‘La Petite Mariee!’ It

was exquisite, but I regretted Jacqueline. She was so charming in that

lively little part. What a catastrophe!

“What a terrible catastrophe! Were you speaking of the retreat she

wishes to make in a convent? Well, I quite understand how she feels

about it! I should feel the same myself. In the bewilderment of a first

grief one does not care to see anything of the world. ‘Mon Dieu’! youth

always has these exaggerated notions. She will come back to us. Poor

little thing! Of course it was no fault of hers, and I should not think

of blaming Monsieur de Cymier. The exigencies of his career--but you all

must own that unexpected things happen so suddenly in this life that it

is enough to discourage any one who likes to open her house and provide

amusement for her friends.”

Every one present pitied her for the contretemps over which she had

triumphed so successfully. Then she resumed, serenely:

“Don’t you think that Isabelle played the part almost as well as

Jacqueline? Up to the last moment I was afraid that something would

go wrong. When one gets into a streak of ill-luck--but all went off to

perfection, thank heaven!”

Meantime Madame Odinska was whispering to one of those who sat near her

her belief that Jacqueline would never get over her father’s loss. “It

would not astonish me,” she said, “to hear that the child, who has a

noble nature, would remain in the convent and take the veil.”

Any kind of heroic deed seemed natural to this foolish enthusiast, who,

as a matter of fact, in her own life, had never shown any tendency

to heroic virtues; her mission in life had seemed to be to spoil her

daughters in every possible way, and to fling away more money than

belonged to her.

“Really? Was she so very fond of her father!” asked Madame Ray,

incredulously. “When he was alive, they did not seem to make much of

him in his own house. Maybe this retreat is a good way of getting over a

little wound to her ‘amour-propre’.”

“The proper thing, I think,” said Madame d’Etaples, “would be for the

mother and daughter to keep together, to bear the troubles before them

hand in hand. Jacqueline does not seem to think much of the last wishes

of the father she pretends to be so fond of. The Baroness showed me,

with many tears, a letter he left joined to his will, which was written

some years ago, and which now, of course, is of no value. He told mother

and daughter to take care of each other and hoped they would always

remain friends, loving each other for love of him. Jacqueline’s conduct

amazes me; it looks like ingratitude.”

“Oh! she is a hard-hearted little thing! I always thought so!” said

Madame de Villegry, carelessly.

Here the rising of the curtain stopped short these discussions, which

displayed so much good-nature and perspicacity. But some laid the blame

on the influence of that little bigot of a Talbrun, who had secretly

blown up the fire of religious enthusiasm in Jacqueline, when Madame

d’Avrigny’s energetic “Hush!” put an end to the discussion. It was time

to come back to more immediate interests, to the play which went on in

spite of wind and tide.

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XIV. BITTER DISILLUSION

Some people in this world who turn round and round in a daily circle of

small things, like squirrels in a cage, have no idea of the pleasure a

young creature, conscious of courage, has in trying its strength; this

struggle with fortune loses its charm as it grows longer and longer and

more and more difficult, but at the beginning it is an almost certain

remedy for sorrow.

To her resolve to make head against misfortune Jacqueline owed the

fact that she did not fall into those morbid reveries which might have

converted her passing fancy for a man who was simply a male flirt into

the importance of a lost love. Is there any human being conscious of

energy, and with faith in his or her own powers, who has not wished

to know something of adversity in order to rise to the occasion and

confront it? To say nothing of the pleasure there is in eating brown

bread, when one has been fed only on cake, or of the satisfaction that a

child feels when, after strict discipline, he is left to do as he likes,

to say nothing of the pleasure ladies boarding in nunneries are sure to

feel on reentering the world, at recovering their liberty, Jacqueline by

nature loved independence, and she was attracted by the novelty of her

situation as larks are attracted by a mirror. She was curious to know

what life held for her in reserve, and she was extremely anxious to

repair the error she had committed in giving way to a feeling of which

she was now ashamed. What could do this better than hard work? To owe

everything to herself, to her talents, to her efforts, to her industry,

such was Jacqueline’s ideal of her future life.

She had, before this, crowned her brilliant reputation in the ‘cours’ of

M. Regis by passing her preliminary examination at the Sorbonne; she was

confident of attaining the highest degree--the ‘brevet superieur’, and

while pursuing her own studies she hoped to give lessons in music and in

foreign languages, etc. Thus assured of making her own living, she could

afford to despise the discreditable happiness of Madame de Nailles, who,

she had no doubt, would shortly become Madame Marien; also the crooked

ways in which M. de Cymier might pursue his fortune-hunting. She said

to herself that she should never marry; that she had other objects of

interest; that marriage was for those who had nothing better before

them; and the world appeared to her under a new aspect, a sphere

of useful activity full of possibilities, of infinite variety, and

abounding in interests. Marriage might be all very well for rich

girls, who unhappily were objects of value to be bought and sold; her

semi-poverty gave her the right to break the chains that hampered the

career of other well-born women--she would make her own way in the world

like a man.

Thus, at eighteen, youth is ready to set sail in a light skiff on a

rough sea, having laid in a good store of imagination and of courage, of

childlike ignorance and self-esteem.

No doubt she would meet with some difficulties; that thought did but

excite her ardor. No doubt Madame de Nailles would try to keep her

with her, and Jacqueline had provided herself beforehand with some

double-edged remarks by way of weapons, which she intended to use

according to circumstances. But all these preparations for defense or

attack proved unnecessary. When she told the Baroness of her plans she

met with no opposition. She had expected that her project of separation

would highly displease her stepmother; on the contrary, Madame de

Nailles discussed her projects quietly, affecting to consider them

merely temporary, but with no indication of dissatisfaction or

resistance. In truth she was not sorry that Jacqueline, whose

companionship became more and more embarrassing every day, had cut the

knot of a difficult position by a piece of wilfulness and perversity

which seemed to put her in the wrong. The necessity she would have been

under of crushing such a girl, who was now eighteen, would have been

distasteful and unprofitable; she was very glad to get rid of her

stepdaughter, always provided it could be done decently and without

scandal. Those two, who had once so loved each other and who were now

sharers in the same sorrows, became enemies--two hostile parties, which

only skilful strategy could ever again bring together. They tacitly

agreed to certain conditions: they would save appearances; they would

remain on outwardly good terms with each other whatever happened,

and above all they would avoid any explanation. This programme was

faithfully carried out, thanks to the great tact of Madame de Nailles.

No one could have been more watchful to appear ignorant of everything

which, if once brought to light, would have led to difficulties;

for instance, she feigned not to know that her stepdaughter was in

possession of a secret which, if the world knew, would forever make them

strangers to each other; nor would she seem aware that Hubert Marien,

weary to death of the tie that bound him to her, was restrained

from breaking it only by a scruple of honor. Thanks to this seeming

ignorance, she parted from Jacqueline without any open breach, as she

had long hoped to do, and she retained as a friend who supplied her

wants a man who was only too happy to be allowed at this price to escape

the act of reparation which Jacqueline, in her simplicity, had dreaded.

All those who, having for years dined and danced under the roof of the

Nailles, were accounted their friends by society, formed themselves

into two parties, one of which lauded to the skies the dignity and

resignation of the Baroness, while the other admired the force of

character in Jacqueline.

Visitors flocked to the convent which the young girl, by the advice of

Giselle, had chosen for her retreat because it was situated in a quiet

quarter. She who looked so beautiful in her crape garments, who showed

herself so satisfied in her little cell with hardly any furniture, who

was grateful for the services rendered her by the lay sisters,

content with having no salon but the convent parlor, who was passing

examinations to become a teacher, and who seemed to consider it a favor

to be sometimes allowed to hear the children in the convent school

say their lessons--was surely like a heroine in a novel. And indeed

Jacqueline had the agreeable sensation of considering herself one.

Public admiration was a great help to her, after she had passed through

that crisis in her grief during which she could feel nothing but the

horror of knowing she should never see her father again, when she had

ceased to weep for him incessantly, to pray for him, and to turn, like

a wounded lioness, on those who blamed his reckless conduct, though she

herself had been its chief victim.

For three months she hardly left the convent, walking only in the

grounds and gardens, which were of considerable extent. From time to

time Giselle came for her and took her to drive in the Bois at that hour

of the day when few people were there.

Enguerrand, who, thanks to his mother’s care, was beginning to be an

intelligent and interesting child, though he was still painfully like

M. de Talbrun, was always with them in the coupe, kindhearted Giselle

thinking that nothing could be so likely to assuage grief as the prattle

of a child. She was astonished--she was touched to the heart, by what

she called naively the conversion of Jacqueline. It was true that the

young girl had no longer any whims or caprices. All the nuns seemed to

her amiable, her lodging was all she needed, her food was excellent; her

lessons gave her amusement. Possibly the excitement of the entire change

had much to do at first with this philosophy, and in fact at the end of

six months Jacqueline owned that she was growing tired of dining at the

table d’hote.

There was a little knot of crooked old ladies who were righteous

overmuch, and several sour old maids whose only occupation seemed to

be to make remarks on any person who had anything different in dress,

manners, or appearance from what they considered the type of the

becoming. If it is not good that man should live alone, it is equally

true that women should not live together. Jacqueline found this out as

soon as her powers of observation came back to her. And about the

same time she discovered that she was not so free as she had flattered

herself she should be. The appearance of a lady, fair and with light

hair, very pretty and about her own age, gave her for the first time an

inclination to talk at table. She and this young woman met twice a day

at their meals, in the morning and in the evening; their rooms were

next each other, and at night Jacqueline could hear her through the thin

partition giving utterance to sighs, which showed that she was unhappy.

Several times, too, she came upon her in the garden looking earnestly

at a place where the wall had been broken, a spot whence it was said a

Spanish countess had been carried off by a bold adventurer. Jacqueline

thought there must be something romantic in the history of this

newcomer, and would have liked exceedingly to know what it might be.

As a prelude to acquaintance, she offered the young stranger some holy

water when they met in the chapel, a bow and a smile were interchanged,

their fingers touched. They seemed almost friends. After this,

Jacqueline contrived to change her seat at table to one next to this

unknown person, so prettily dressed, with her hair so nicely arranged,

and, though her expression was very sad, with a smile so very winning.

She alone represented the world, the world of Paris, among all those

ladies, some of whom were looking for places as companions, some having

come up from the provinces, and some being old ladies who had seen

better days. Her change of place was observed by the nun who presided

at the table, and a shade of displeasure passed over her face. It was

slight, but it portended trouble. And, indeed, when grace had been said,

Mademoiselle de Nailles was sent for by the Mother Superior, who gave

her to understand that, being so young, it was especially incumbent

on her to be circumspect in her choice of associates. Her place

thenceforward was to be between Madame de X-----, an old, deaf lady, and

Mademoiselle J-----, a former governess, as cold as ice and exceedingly

respectable. As to Madame Saville, she had been received in the convent

for especial reasons, arising out of circumstances which did not make

her a fit companion for inexperienced girls. The Superior hesitated a

moment and then said: “Her husband requested us to take charge of her,”

in a tone by which Jacqueline quite understood that “take charge” was a

synonym for “keep a strict watch upon her.” She was spied upon, she was

persecuted--unjustly, no doubt.

All this increased the interest that Jacqueline already felt in the lady

with the light hair. But she made a low curtsey to the Mother

Superior and returned no answer. Her intercourse with her neighbor

was thenceforward; however, sly and secret, which only made it more

interesting and exciting. They would exchange a few words when they met

upon the stairs, in the garden, or in the cloisters, when there was

no curious eye to spy them out; and the first time Jacqueline went out

alone Madame Saville was on the watch, and, without speaking, slipped a

letter into her hand.

This first time Jacqueline went out was an epoch in her life, as small

events are sometimes in the annals of nations; it was the date of her

emancipation, it coincided with what she called her choice of a career.

Thinking herself sure of possessing a talent for teaching, she had

spoken of it to several friends who had come to see her, and who each

and all exclaimed that they would like some lessons, a delicate way of

helping her quite understood by Jacqueline. Pupils like Belle Ray and

Yvonne d’Etaples, who wanted her to come twice a week to play duets with

them or to read over new music, were not nearly so interesting as those

in her little class who had hardly more than learned their scales!

Besides this, Madame d’Avrigny begged her to come and dine with her,

when there would be only themselves, on Mondays, and then practise with

Dolly, who had not another moment in which she could take a lesson. She

should be sent home scrupulously before ten o’clock, that being the hour

at the convent when every one must be in. Jacqueline accepted all these

kindnesses gratefully. By Giselle’s advice she hid her slight figure

under a loose cloak and put on her head a bonnet fit for a grandmother,

a closed hat with long strings, which, when she first put it on her

head, made her burst out laughing. She imagined herself to be going

forth in disguise. To walk the streets thus masked she thought would be

amusing, so amusing that the moment she set foot on the street pavement

she felt that the joy of living was yet strong in her. With a roll of

music in her hand, she walked on rather hesitatingly, a little afraid,

like a bird just escaped from the cage where it was born; her heart

beat, but it was with pleasure; she fancied every one was looking at

her, and in fact one old gentleman, not deceived by the cloak, did

follow her till she got into an omnibus for the first time in her

life--a new experience and a new pleasure. Once seated, and a little out

of breath, she remembered Madame Saville’s letter, which she had slipped

into her pocket. It was sealed and had a stamp on it; it was too highly

scented to be in good taste, and it was addressed to a lieutenant of

chasseurs with an aristocratic name, in a garrison at Fontainebleau.

Then Jacqueline began vaguely to comprehend that Madame Saville’s

husband might have had serious reasons for commending his wife to the

surveillance of the nuns, and that there might have been some excuse for

their endeavoring to hinder all intimacy between herself and the little

blonde.

This office of messenger, thrust upon her without asking permission,

was not agreeable to Jacqueline, and she resolved as she dropped the

missive, which, even on the outside, looked compromising, into the

nearest post-box, to be more reserved in future. For which reason she

responded coldly to a sign Madame Saville made her when, in the evening,

she returned from giving her lessons.

Those lessons--those excursions which took her abroad in all weathers,

though with praiseworthy and serious motives, into the fashionable

parts of Paris, from which she had exiled herself by her own will--were

greatly enjoyed by Jacqueline. Everything amused her, being seen from a

point of view in which she had never before contemplated it. She seemed

to be at a play, all personal interests forgotten for the moment,

looking at the world of which she was no longer a part with a lively,

critical curiosity, without regrets but without cynicism. The world did

not seem to her bad--only man’s higher instincts had little part in it.

Such, at least, was what she thought, so long as people praised her

for her courage, so long as the houses in which another Jacqueline

de Nailles had been once so brilliant, received her with affection as

before, though she had to leave in an anteroom her modest waterproof

or wet umbrella. They were even more kind and cordial to her than ever,

unless an exaggerated cordiality be one form of impertinence. But the

enthusiasm bestowed on splendid instances of energy in certain circles,

to which after all such energy is a reproach, is superficial, and

not being genuine is sure not to last long. Some people said that

Jacqueline’s staid manners were put on for effect, and that she was only

attempting to play a difficult part to which she was not suited; others

blamed her for not being up to concert-pitch in matters of social

interest. The first time she felt the pang of exclusion was at

Madame d’Avrigny’s, who was at the same moment overwhelming her with

expressions of regard. In the first place, she could see that the little

family dinner to which she had been so kindly invited was attended by so

many guests that her deep mourning seemed out of place among them. Then

Madame d’Avrigny would make whispered explanations, which Jacqueline was

conscious of, and which were very painful to her. Such words as: “Old

friend of the family;” “Is giving music lessons to my daughter;” fell

more than once upon her ear, followed by exclamations of “Poor thing!”

“So courageous!” “Chivalric sentiments!” Of course, everyone added that

they excused her toilette. Then when she tried to escape such remarks

by wearing a new gown, Dolly, who was always a little fool (there is

no cure for that infirmity) cried out in a tone such as she never would

have dared to use in the days when Jacqueline was a model of elegance:

“Oh, how fine you are!” Then again, Madame d’Avrigny, notwithstanding

the good manners on which she prided herself, could not conceal that the

obligation of sending home the recluse to the ends of the earth, at a

certain hour, made trouble with her servants, who were put out of their

way. Jacqueline seized on this pretext to propose to give up the Monday

music-lesson, and after some polite hesitation her offer was accepted,

evidently to Madame d’Avrigny’s relief.

In this case she had the satisfaction of being the one to propose the

discontinuance of the lessons. At Madame Ray’s she was simply dismissed.

About the close of winter she was told that as Isabelle was soon to be

married she would have no time for music till her wedding was over, and

about the same time the d’Etaples told her much the same thing. This was

not to be wondered at, for Mademoiselle Ray was engaged to an officer of

dragoons, the same Marcel d’Etaples who had acted with her in Scylla

and Charybdis, and Madame Ray, being a watchful mother, was not long in

perceiving that Marcel came to pay court to Isabelle too frequently at

the hour for her music-lesson. Madame d’Etaples on her part had made a

similar discovery, and both judged that the presence of so beautiful

a girl, in Jacqueline’s position, might not be desirable in these

interviews between lovers.

When Giselle, as she was about to leave town for the country in July,

begged Jacqueline, who seemed run down and out of spirits, to come and

stay with her, the poor child was very glad to accept the invitation.

Her pupils were leaving her one after another, she could not understand

why, and she was bored to death in the convent, whose strict rules were

drawn tighter on her than before, for the nuns had begun to understand

her better, and to discover the real worldliness of her character. At

the same time, that retreat within these pious walls no longer seemed

like paradise to Jacqueline; her transition from the deepest crape to

the softer tints of half mourning, seemed to make her less of an angel

in their eyes. They said to each other that Mademoiselle de Nailles was

fanciful, and fancies are the very last things wanted in a convent,

for fancies can brave bolts, and make their escape beyond stone walls,

whatever means may be taken to clip their wings.

“She does not seem like the same person,” cried the good sisters, who

had been greatly edified at first by her behavior, and who were almost

ready now to be shocked at her.

The course of things was coming back rapidly into its natural channel;

in obedience to the law which makes a tree, apparently dead, put forth

shoots in springtime. And that inevitable re-budding and reblossoming

was beautiful to see in this young human plant. M. de Talbrun,

Jacqueline’s host, could not fail to perceive it. At first he had

been annoyed with Giselle for giving the invitation, having a habit of

finding fault with everything he had not ordered or suggested, by virtue

of his marital authority, and also because he hated above all things, as

he said, to have people in his house who were “wobegones.” But in a week

he was quite reconciled to the idea of keeping Mademoiselle de Nailles

all the summer at the Chateau de Fresne. Never had Giselle known him to

take so much trouble to be amiable, and indeed Jacqueline saw him much

more to advantage at home than in Paris, where, as she had often said,

he diffused too strong an odor of the stables. At Fresne, it was more

easy to forgive him for talking always of his stud and of his kennel,

and then he was so obliging! Every day he proposed some new jaunt, an

excursion to see some view, to visit all the ruined chateaux or abbeys

in the neighborhood. And, with surprising delicacy, M. de Talbrun

refrained from inviting too many of his country neighbors, who might

perhaps have scared Jacqueline and arrested her gradual return to

gayety. They might also have interrupted his tete-a-tete with his wife’s

guest, for they had many such conversations. Giselle was absorbed in the

duty of teaching her son his a, b, c. Besides, being very timid, she had

never ridden on horseback, and, naturally, riding was delightful to

her cousin. Jacqueline was never tired of it; while she paid as little

attention to the absurd remarks Oscar made to her between their gallops

as a girl does at a ball to the idle words of her partner. She supposed

it was his custom to talk in that manner--a sort of rough gallantry--but

with the best intentions. Jacqueline was disposed to look upon her life

at Fresne as a feast after a long famine. Everything was to her taste,

the whole appearance of this lordly chateau of the time of Louis

XIII, the splendid trees in the home park, the gardens laid out ‘a la

Francais’, decorated with art and kept up carefully. Everything,

indeed, that pertained to that high life which to Giselle had so little

importance, was to her delightful. Giselle’s taste was so simple that it

was a constant subject of reproach from her husband. To be sure, it was

with him a general rule to find fault with her about everything. He did

not spare her his reproaches on a multitude of subjects; all day long

he was worrying her about small trifles with which he should have had

nothing to do. It is a mistake to suppose that a man can not be brutal

and fussy at the same time. M. de Talbrun was proof to the contrary.

“You are too patient,” said Jacqueline often to Giselle. “You ought to

answer him back--to defend yourself. I am sure if you did so you would

have him, by-and-bye, at your beck and call.”

“Perhaps so. I dare say you could have managed better than I do,”

replied Giselle, with a sad smile, but without a spark of jealousy. “Oh,

you are in high favor. He gave up this week the races at Deauville, the

great race week from which he has never before been absent, since our

marriage. But you see my ambition has become limited; I am satisfied if

he lets me alone.” Giselle spoke these words with emphasis, and then she

added: “and lets me bring up his son my own way. That is all I ask.”

Jacqueline thought in her heart that it was wrong to ask so little,

that poor Giselle did not know how to make the best of her husband, and,

curious to find out what line of conduct would serve best to

subjugate M. de Talbrun, she became herself--that is to say, a born

coquette--venturing from one thing to another, like a child playing

fearlessly with a bulldog, who is gentle only with him, or a fly buzzing

round a spider’s web, while the spider lies quietly within.

She would tease him, contradict him, and make him listen to long pieces

of scientific music as she played them on the piano, when she knew he

always said that music to him was nothing but a disagreeable noise; she

would laugh at his thanks when a final chord, struck with her utmost

force, roused him from a brief slumber; in short, it amused her to prove

that this coarse, rough man was to her alone no object of fear. She

would have done better had she been afraid.

Thus it came to pass that, as they rode together through some of the

prettiest roads in the most beautiful part of Normandy, M. de Talbrun

began to talk, with an ever-increasing vivacity, of the days when

they first met, at Treport, relating a thousand little incidents which

Jacqueline had forgotten, and from which it was easy to see that he had

watched her narrowly, though he was on the eve of his own marriage. With

unnecessary persistence, and stammering as he was apt to do when moved

by any emotion, he repeated over and over again, that from the first

moment he had seen her he had been struck by her--devilishly struck by

her--he had been, indeed! And one day when she answered, in order not to

appear to attach any importance to this declaration, that she was very

glad of it, he took an opportunity, as their horses stopped side by side

before a beautiful sunset, to put his arm suddenly round her waist, and

give her a kiss, so abrupt, so violent, so outrageous, that she screamed

aloud. He did not remove his arm from her, his coarse, red face drew

near her own again with an expression that filled her with horror. She

struggled to free herself, her horse began to rear, she screamed for

help with all her might, but nothing answered her save an echo. The

situation seemed critical for Jacqueline. As to M. de Talbrun, he was

quite at his ease, as if he were accustomed to make love like a centaur;

while the girl felt herself in peril of being thrown at any moment, and

trampled under his horse’s feet. At last she succeeded in striking her

aggressor a sharp blow across the face with her riding-whip. Blinded for

a moment, he let her go, and she took advantage of her release to put

her horse to its full speed. He galloped after her, beside himself with

wrath and agitation; it was a mad but silent race, until they reached

the gate of the Chateau de Fresne, which they entered at the same

moment, their horses covered with foam.

“How foolish!” cried Giselle, coming to meet them. “Just see in what a

state you have brought home your poor horses.”

Jacqueline, pale and trembling, made no answer. M. de Talbrun, as he

helped her to dismount, whispered, savagely: “Not a word of this!”

At dinner, his wife remarked that some branch must have struck him on

the cheek, there was a red mark right across his face like a blow.

“We were riding through the woods,” he answered, shortly.

Then Giselle began to suspect something, and remarked that nobody was

talking that evening, asking, with a half-smile, whether they had been

quarrelling.

“We did have a little difference,” Oscar replied, quietly.

“Oh, it did not amount to anything,” he said, lighting his cigar; “let

us make friends again, won’t you?” he added, holding out his hand to

Jacqueline. She was obliged to give him the tips of her fingers, as she

said in her turn, with audacity equal to his own:

“Oh, it was less than nothing. Only, Giselle, I told your husband that I

had had some bad news, and shall have to go back to Paris, and he tried

to persuade me not to go.”

“I beg you not to go,” said Oscar, vehemently.

“Bad news?” repeated Giselle, “you did not say a word to me about it!”

“I did not have a chance. My old Modeste is very ill and asks me to come

to her. I should never forgive myself if I did not go.”

“What, Modeste? So very ill? Is it really so serious? What a pity! But

you will come back again?”

“If I can. But I must leave Fresne to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, I defy you to leave Fresne!” said M. de Talbrun.

Jacqueline leaned toward him, and said firmly, but in a low voice: “If

you attempt to hinder me, I swear I will tell everything.”

All that evening she did not leave Giselle’s side for a moment, and at

night she locked herself into her chamber and barricaded the door, as if

a mad dog or a murderer were at large in the chateau.

Giselle came into her room at an early hour.

“Is what you said yesterday the truth, Jacqueline? Is Modeste really

ill? Are you sure you have had no reason to complain of anybody in this

place?--of any one?”

Then, after a pause, she added:

“Oh, my darling, how hard it is to do good even to those whom we most

dearly love.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Jacqueline, with an effort. “Everybody

has been kind to me.”

They kissed each other with effusion, but M. de Talbrun’s leave-taking

was icy in the extreme. Jacqueline had made a mortal enemy.

The grand outline of the chateau, built of brick and stone with its

wings flanked by towers, the green turf of the great park in which it

stood, passed from her sight as she drove away, like some vision in a

dream.

“I shall never come back--never come back!” thought Jacqueline. She felt

as if she had been thrust out everywhere. For one moment she thought

of seeking refuge at Lizerolles, which was not very many miles from

the railroad station, and when there of telling Madame d’Argy of her

difficulties, and asking her advice; but false pride kept her from doing

so--the same false pride which had made her write coldly, in answer

to the letters full of feeling and sympathy Fred had written to her on

receiving news of her father’s death.

CHAPTER XV. TREACHEROUS KINDNESS

The experience through which Jacqueline had just passed was not

calculated to fortify her or to elevate her soul. She felt for the

first time that her unprotected situation and her poverty exposed her to

insult, for what other name could she give to the outrageous behavior of

M. de Talbrun, which had degraded her in her own eyes?

What right had that man to treat her as his plaything? Her pride and

all her womanly instincts rose up in rebellion. Her nerves had been so

shaken that she sobbed behind her veil all the way to her destination.

Paris, when she reached it, offered her almost nothing that could

comfort or amuse her. That city is always empty and dull in August, more

so than at any other season. Even the poor occupation of teaching her

little class of music pupils had been taken away by the holidays. Her

sole resource was in Modeste’s society. Modeste--who, by the way, had

never been ill, and who suffered from nothing but old age--was delighted

to receive her dear young lady in her little room far up under the

roof, where, though quite infirm, she lived comfortably, on her savings.

Jacqueline, sitting beside her as she sewed, was soothed by her old

nursery tales, or by anecdotes of former days. Her own relatives were

often the old woman’s theme. She knew the history of Jacqueline’s family

from beginning to end; but, wherever her story began, it invariably

wound up with:

“If only your poor papa had not made away with all your money!”

And Jacqueline always answered:

“He was quite at liberty to do what he pleased with what belonged to

him.”

“Belonged to him! Yes, but what belonged to you? And how does it happen

that your stepmother seems so well off? Why doesn’t some family council

interfere? My little pet, to think of your having to work for your

living. It’s enough to kill me!”

“Bah! Modeste, there are worse things than being poor.”

“Maybe so,” answered the old nurse, doubtfully, “but when one has money

troubles along with the rest, the money troubles make other things

harder to bear; whereas, if you have money enough you can bear anything,

and you would have had enough, after all, if you had married Monsieur

Fred.”

At which point Jacqueline insisted that Modeste should be silent, and

answered, resolutely: “I mean never to marry at all.”

To this Modeste made answer: “That’s another of your notions. The worst

husband is always better than none; and I know, for I never married.”

“That’s why you talk such nonsense, my poor dear Modeste! You know

nothing about it.”

One day, after one of these visits to the only friend, as she believed,

who remained to her in the world--for her intimacy with Giselle was

spoiled forever--she saw, as she walked with a heavy heart toward her

convent in a distant quarter, an open fiacre pull up, in obedience to

a sudden cry from a passenger who was sitting inside. The person sprang

out, and rushed toward Jacqueline with loud exclamations of joy.

“Madame Strahlberg!”

“Dear Jacqueline! What a pleasure to meet you!” And, the street being

nearly empty, Madame Strahlberg heartily embraced her friend.

“I have thought of you so often, darling, for months past--they seem

like years, like centuries! Where have you been all that long time?”

In point of fact, Jacqueline had no proof that the three Odinska ladies

had ever remembered her existence, but that might have been partly her

own fault, or rather the fault of Giselle, who had made her promise to

have as little as possible to do with such compromising personages.

She was seized with a kind of remorse when she found such warmth of

recognition from the amiable Wanda. Had she not shown herself ungrateful

and cowardly? People about whom the world talks, are they not sometimes

quite as good as those who have not lost their standing in society, like

M. de Talbrun? It seemed to her that, go where she would, she ran risks.

The cynicism that is the result of sad experience was beginning to show

itself in Jacqueline.

“Oh, forgive me!” she said, feeling, contrite.

“Forgive you for what, you beautiful creature?” asked Madame Strahlberg,

with sincere astonishment.

She had the excellent custom of never observing when people neglected

her, or at least, of never showing that she did so, partly because her

life was so full of varied interests that she cared little for such

trifles, and secondly because, having endured several affronts of that

nature, she had ceased to be very sensitive.

“I knew, through the d’Avrignys,” she said, “that you were still at the

convent. You are not going to take the veil there, are you? It would be

a great pity. No? You wish to lead the life of an intelligent woman who

is free and independent? That is well; but it was rather an odd idea to

begin by going into a cloister. Oh!--I see, public opinion?” And Madame

Strahlberg made a little face, expressive of her contempt for public

opinion.

“It does not pay to consult other people’s opinions--it is useless,

believe me. The more we sacrifice to public opinion, the more it asks of

us. I cut that matter short long ago. But how glad I am to hear that

you don’t intend to hide that lovely face in a convent. You are looking

better than ever--a little too pale, still, perhaps--a little too

interesting. Colette will be so glad to see you, for you must let me

take you home with me. I shall carry you off, whether you will or not,

now I have caught you. We will have a little music just among ourselves,

as we had in the good old times--you know, our dear music; you will feel

like yourself again. Ah, art--there is nothing to compare with art in

this world, my darling!”

Jacqueline yielded without hesitation, only too glad of the unhoped-for

good fortune which relieved her from her ennui and her depression. And

soon the hired victoria was on its way to that quarter of the city which

is made up of streets with geographical names, and seems as if it were

intended to lodge all the nations under heaven. It stopped in the Rue

de Naples, before a house that was somewhat showy, but which showed from

its outside, that it was not inhabited by high-bred people. There were

pink linings to lace curtains at the windows, and quantities of green

vines drooped from the balconies, as if to attract attention from the

passers-by. Madame Strahlberg, with her ostentatious and undulating

walk, which caused men to turn and notice her as she went by, went

swiftly up the stairs to the second story. She put one finger on the

electric bell, which caused two or three little dogs inside to begin

barking, and pushed Jacqueline in before her, crying: “Colette! Mamma!

See whom I have brought back to you!” Meantime doors were hurriedly

opened, quick steps resounded in the antechamber, and the newcomer

found herself received with a torrent of affectionate and delighted

exclamations, pressed to the ample bosom of Madame Odinska, covered with

kisses by Colette, and fawned upon by the three toy terriers, the most

sociable of their kind in all Paris, their mistresses declared.

Jacqueline was passing through one of those moments when one is at the

mercy of chance, when the heart which has been closed by sorrow suddenly

revives, expands, and softens under the influence of a ray of sunshine.

Tears came into her eyes, and she murmured:

“My friends--my kind friends!”

“Yes, your friends, whatever happens, now and always,” said Colette,

eagerly, though she had probably barely given a thought to Jacqueline

for eighteen months. Nevertheless, on seeing her, Colette really

thought she had not for a moment ceased to be fond of her. “How you have

suffered, you poor pussy! We must set to work and make you feel a little

gay, at any price. You see, it is our duty. How lucky you came to-day--”

A sign from her sister stopped her.

They carried Jacqueline into a large and handsome salon, full of dust

and without curtains, with all the furniture covered up as if the

family were on the eve of going to the country. Madame Strahlberg,

nevertheless, was not about to leave Paris, her habit being to remain

there in the summer, sometimes for months, picnicking as it were, in her

own apartment. What was curious, too, was that the chandelier and all

the side-lights had fresh wax candles, and seats were arranged as if in

preparation for a play, while near the grand piano was a sort of stage,

shut off from the rest of the room by screens.

Colette sat down on one of the front row of chairs and cried: “I am the

audience--I am all ears.” Her sister hurriedly explained all this to

Jacqueline, with out waiting to be questioned: “We have been giving some

little summer entertainments of late, of which you see the remains.” She

went at once to the piano, and incited Jacqueline to sing by beginning

one of their favorite duets, and Jacqueline, once more in her native

element, followed her lead. They went on from one song to another, from

the light to the severe, from scientific music to mere tunes and airs,

turning over the old music-books together.

“Yes, you are a little out of practice, but all you have to do is to

rub off the rust. Your voice is finer than ever--just like velvet.”

And Madame Strahlberg pretended that she envied the fine mezzo-soprano,

speaking disparagingly of her own little thread of a voice, which,

however, she managed so skilfully. “What a shame to take up your time

teaching, with such a voice as that!” she cried; “you are out of your

senses, my dear, you are raving mad. It would be sinful to keep your

gifts to yourself! I am very sorry to discourage you, but you have none

of the requisites for a teacher. The stage would be best for you--‘Mon

Dieu! why not? You will see La Rochette this evening; she is a person

who would give you good advice. I wish she could hear you!”

“But my dear friend, I can not stay,” murmured Jacqueline, for those

unexpected words “the stage, why not?” rang in her head, made her heart

beat fast, and made lights dance before her eyes. “They are expecting me

to dine at home.”

“At your convent? I beg your pardon, I’ll take care of that. Don’t you

know me? My claws seldom let go of a prize, especially when that prize

is worth the keeping. A little telegram has already been sent, with your

excuses. The telegraph is good for that, if not for anything else: it

facilitates ‘impromptus’.”

“Long live impromptus,” cried out Colette, “there is nothing like them

for fun!” And while Jacqueline was trying to get away, not knowing

exactly what she was saying, but frightened, pleased, and much excited,

Colette went on: “Oh! I am so glad, so glad you came to-day; now you can

see the pantomime! I dreamed, wasn’t it odd, only last night, that you

were acting it with us. How can one help believing in presentiments?

Mine are always delightful--and yours?”

“The pantomime?” repeated Jacqueline in bewilderment, “but I thought

your sister told me you were all alone.”

“How could we have anything like company in August?” said Madame

Strahlberg, interrupting her; “why, it would be impossible, there are

not four cats in Paris. No, no, we sha’n’t have anybody. A few

friends possibly may drop in--people passing through Paris--in their

travelling-dresses. Nothing that need alarm you. The pantomime Colette

talks about is only a pretext that they may hear Monsieur Szmera.”

And who was M. Szmera?

Jacqueline soon learned that he was a Hungarian, second half-cousin of

a friend of Kossuth, the most wonderful violinist of the day, who

had apparently superseded the famous Polish pianist in these ladies’

interest and esteem. As for the latter, they had almost forgotten his

name, he had behaved so badly.

“But,” said Jacqueline, anxiously, “you know I am obliged to be home by

ten o’clock.”

“Ah! that’s like Cinderella,” laughed Wanda. “Will the stroke of the

clock change all the carriages in Paris into pumpkins? One can get

‘fiacres’ at any hour.”

“But it is a fixed rule: I must be in,” repeated Jacqueline, growing

very uneasy.

“Must you really? Madame Saville says it is very easy to manage those

nuns--”

“What? Do you know Madame Saville, who was boarding at the convent last

winter?”

“Yes, indeed; she is a countrywoman of ours, a friend, the most charming

of women. You will see her here this evening. She has gained her divorce

suit--”

“You are mistaken,” said Colette, “she has lost it. But that makes

no difference. She has got tired of her husband. Come, say ‘Yes,’

Jacqueline--a nice, dear ‘Yes’--you will stay, will you not? Oh, you

darling!”

They dined without much ceremony, on the pretext that the cook had been

turned off that morning for impertinence, but immediately after dinner

there was a procession of boys from a restaurant, bringing whipped

creams, iced drinks, fruits, sweetmeats, and champagne--more than would

have been wanted at the buffet of a ball. The Prince, they said, had

sent these things. What Prince?

As Jacqueline was asking this question, a gentleman came in whose age

it would have been impossible to guess, so disguised was he by his black

wig, his dyed whiskers, and the soft bloom on his cheeks, all of which

were entirely out of keeping with those parts of his face that he could

not change. In one of his eyes was stuck a monocle. He was bedizened

with several orders, he bowed with military stiffness, and kissed with

much devotion the ladies’ hands, calling them by titles, whether they

had them or not. His foreign accent made it as hard to detect his

nationality as it was to know his age. Two or three other gentlemen, not

less decorated and not less foreign, afterward came in. Colette named

them in a whisper to Jacqueline, but their names were too hard for her

to pronounce, much less to remember. One of them, a man of handsome

presence, came accompanied by a sort of female ruin, an old lady leaning

on a cane, whose head, every time she moved, glittered with jewels,

placed in a very lofty erection of curled hair.

“That gentleman’s mother is awfully ugly,” Jacqueline could not help

saying.

“His mother? What, the Countess? She is neither his mother nor his wife.

He is her gentleman-in-waiting-that’s all. Don’t you understand? Well,

imagine a man who is a sort of ‘gentleman-companion’; he keeps her

accounts, he escorts her to the theatre, he gives her his arm. It is a

very satisfactory arrangement.”

“The gentleman receives a salary, in such a case?” inquired Jacqueline,

much amused.

“Why, what do you find in it so extraordinary?” said Colette. “She

adores cards, and there he is, always ready to be her partner. Oh, here

comes dear Madame Saville!”

There were fresh cries of welcome, fresh exchanges of affectionate

diminutives and kisses, which seemed to make the Prince’s mouth water.

Jacqueline discovered, to her great surprise, that she, too, was a dear

friend of Madame Saville’s, who called her her good angel, in reference,

no doubt, to the letter she had secretly put into the post. At last she

said, trying to make her escape from the party: “But it must be nine

o’clock.”

“Oh! but--you must hear Szmera.”

A handsome young fellow, stoutly built, with heavy eyebrows, a hooked

nose, a quantity of hair growing low upon his forehead, and lips that

were too red, the perfect type of a Hungarian gypsy, began a piece of

his own composition, which had all the ardor of a mild ‘galopade’ and

a Satanic hunt, with intervals of dying sweetness, during which the

painted skeleton they called the Countess declared that she certainly

heard a nightingale warbling in the moonlight.

This charming speech was forthwith repeated by her “umbra” in all parts

of the room, which was now nearly filled with people, a mixed multitude,

some of whom were frantic about music, others frantic about Wanda

Strahlberg. There were artists and amateurs present, and even

respectable women, for Madame d’Avrigny, attracted by the odor of a

species of Bohemianism, had come to breathe it with delight, under cover

of a wish to glean ideas for her next winter’s receptions.

Then again there were women who had been dropped out of society, like

Madame de Versanne, who, with her sunken eyes and faded face, was not

likely again to pick up in the street a bracelet worth ten thousand

francs. There was a literary woman who signed herself Fraisiline, and

wrote papers on fashion--she was so painted and bedizened that some one

remarked that the principal establishments she praised in print probably

paid her in their merchandise. There was a dowager whose aristocratic

name appeared daily on the fourth page of the newspapers, attesting the

merits of some kind of quack medicine; and a retired opera-singer, who,

having been called Zenaide Rochet till she grew up in Montmartre, where

she was born, had had a brilliant career as a star in Italy under the

name of Zina Rochette. La Rochette’s name, alas! is unknown to the

present generation.

In all, there were about twenty persons, who made more noise with their

applause than a hundred ordinary guests, for enthusiasm was exacted by

Madame Strahlberg. Profiting by the ovation to the Hungarian musician,

Jacqueline made a movement toward the door, but just as she reached it

she had the misfortune of falling in with her old acquaintance, Nora

Sparks, who was at that moment entering with her father. She was forced

to sit down again and hear all about Kate’s marriage. Kate had gone back

to New York, her husband being an American, but Nora said she had made

up her mind not to leave Europe till she had found a satisfactory match.

“You had better make haste about it, if you expect to keep me here,”

said Mr. Sparks, with a peculiar expression in his eye. He was eager to

get home, having important business to attend to in the West.

“Oh, papa, be quiet! I shall find somebody at Bellagio. Why, darling,

are you still in mourning?”

She had forgotten that Jacqueline had lost her father. Probably she

would not have thought it necessary to wear black so long for Mr.

Sparks. Meantime, Madame Strahlberg and her sister had left the room.

“When are they coming back?” said Jacqueline, growing very nervous. “It

seems to me this clock must be wrong. It says half-past nine. I am sure

it must be later than that.”

“Half-past nine!--why, it is past eleven,” replied Miss Nora, with a

giggle. “Do you suppose they pay any attention to clocks in this house?

Everything here is topsy-turvy.”

“Oh! what shall I do?” sighed poor Jacqueline, on the verge of tears.

“Why, do they keep you such a prisoner as that? Can’t you come in a

little late--”

“They wouldn’t open the doors--they never open the doors on any pretext

after ten o’clock,” cried Jacqueline, beside herself.

“Then your nuns must be savages? You should teach them better.”

“Don’t be worried, dear little one, you can sleep on this sofa,” said

Madame Odinska, kindly.

To whom had she not offered that useful sofa? Wanda and Colette were

just as ready to propose that others should spend the night with them

as, on the smallest pretext, to accept the same hospitality from others.

Wanda, indeed, always slept curled up like a cat on a divan, in a fur

wrapper, which she put on early in the evening when she wanted to smoke

cigarettes. She went to sleep at no regular hour. A bear’s skin was

placed always within her reach, so that if she were cold she could draw

it over her. Jacqueline, not being accustomed to these Polish fashions,

did not seem to be much attracted by the offer of the sofa. She blamed

herself bitterly for her own folly in having got herself into a scrape

which might lead to serious consequences.

But this was neither time nor place for expressions of anxiety; it would

be absurd to trouble every one present with her regrets. Besides, the

harm was done--it was irreparable--and while she was turning over in her

mind in what manner she could explain to the Mother Superior that

the mistake about the hour had been no fault of hers--and the Mother

Superior, alas! would be sure to make inquiries as to the friends whom

she had visited--the magic violin of M. Szmera played its first notes,

accompanied by Madame Odinska on the piano, and by a delicious little

flute. They played an overture, the dreamy sweetness of which extorted

cries of admiration from all the women.

Suddenly, the screens parted, and upon the little platform that

represented a stage bounded a sort of anomalous being, supple and

charming, in the traditional dress of Pierrot, whom the English

vulgarize and call Harlequin. He had white camellias instead of buttons

on his loose white jacket, and the bright eyes of Wanda shone out

from his red-and-white face. He held a mandolin, and imitated the most

charming of serenades, before a make-believe window, which, being opened

by a white, round arm, revealed Colette, dressed as Colombine.

The little pantomime piece was called ‘Pierrot in Love’. It consisted

of a series of dainty coquetries, sudden quarrels, fits of jealousy,

and tender reconciliations, played by the two sisters. Colette with

her beauty, Wanda with her talent, her impishness, her graceful and

voluptuous attitudes, electrified the spectators, especially in a long

monologue, in which Pierrot contemplated suicide, made more effective by

the passionate and heart-piercing strains of the Hungarian’s violin, so

that old Rochette cried out: “What a pity such a wonder should not be

upon the stage!” La Rochette, now retired into private life, wearing

an old dress, with her gray hair and her black eyes, like those of a

watchful crocodile, took the pleasure in the pantomime that all actors

do to the very last in everything connected with the theatre. She cried

‘brava’ in tones that might reach Italy; she blew kisses to the actors

in default of flowers.

Madame d’Avrigny was also transported to the sixth heaven, but

Jacqueline’s presence somewhat marred her pleasure. When she first

perceived her she had shown great surprise. “You here, my dear?” she

cried, “I thought you safe with our own excellent Giselle.”

“Safe, Madame? It seems to me one can be safe anywhere,” Jacqueline

answered, though she was tempted to say “safe nowhere;” but instead she

inquired for Dolly.

Dolly’s mother bit her lips and then replied: “You see I have not

brought her. Oh, yes, this house is very amusing--but rather too much

so. The play was very pretty, and I am sorry it would not do at my

house. It is too--too ‘risque’, you know;” and she rehearsed her usual

speech about the great difficulties encountered by a lady who wished to

give entertainments and provide amusement for her friends.

Meantime Pierrot, or rather Madame Strahlberg, had leaped over an

imaginary barrier and came dancing toward the company, shaking her large

sleeves and settling her little snake-like head in her large quilled

collar, dragging after her the Hungarian, who seemed not very willing.

She presented him to Madame d’Avrigny, hoping that so fashionable a

woman might want him to play at her receptions during the winter, and

to a journalist who promised to give him a notice in his paper,

provided--and here he whispered something to Pierrot, who, smiling,

answered neither yes nor no. The sisters kept on their costumes;

Colette was enchanting with her bare neck, her long-waisted black velvet

corsage, her very short skirt, and a sort of three-cornered hat upon

her head. All the men paid court to her, and she accepted their homage,

becoming gayer and gayer at every compliment, laughing loudly, possibly

that her laugh might exhibit her beautiful teeth.

Wanda, as Pierrot, sang, with her hands in her pockets, a Russian

village song: “Ah! Dounai-li moy Dounai” (“Oh! thou, my Danube”). Then

she imperiously called Jacqueline to the piano:--“It is your turn now,”

she said, “most humble violet.”

Up to that moment, Jacqueline’s deep mourning had kept the gentlemen

present from addressing her, though she had been much stared at.

Although she did not wish to sing, for her heart was heavy as she

thought of the troubles that awaited her the next day at the convent,

she sang what was asked of her without resistance or pretension. Then,

for the first time, she experienced the pride of triumph. Szmera, though

he was furious at not being the sole lion of the evening, complimented

her, bowing almost to the ground, with one hand on his heart; Madame

Rochette assured her that she had a fortune in her throat whenever she

chose to seek it; persons she had never seen and who did not know her

name, pressed her hands fervently, saying that her singing was adorable.

All cried “Encore,” “Encore!” and, yielding to the pleasure of applause,

she thought no more of the flight of time. Dawn was peeping through the

windows when the party broke up.

“What kind people!” thought the debutante, whom they had encouraged and

applauded; “some perhaps are a little odd, but how much cordiality

and warmth there is among them! It is catching. This is the sort of

atmosphere in which talent should live.”

Being very much fatigued, she fell asleep upon the offered sofa,

half-pleased, half-frightened, but with two prominent convictions: one,

that she was beginning to return to life; the other, that she stood on

the edge of a precipice. In her dreams old Rochette appeared to her, her

face like that of an affable frog, her dress the dress of Pierrot, and

she croaked out, in a variety of tones: “The stage! Why not? Applauded

every night--it would be glorious!” Then she seemed in her dream to be

falling, falling down from a great height, as one falls from fairyland

into stern reality. She opened her eyes: it was noon. Madame Odinska was

waiting for her: she intended herself to take her to the convent, and

for that purpose had assumed the imposing air of a noble matron.

Alas! it was in vain! Jacqueline, was made to understand that such

an infraction of the rules could not be overlooked. To pass the night

without leave out of the convent, and not with her own family, was cause

for expulsion. Neither the prayers nor the anger of Madame Odinska

had any power to change the sentence. While the Mother Superior

calmly pronounced her decree, she was taking the measure of this stout

foreigner who appeared in behalf of Jacqueline, a woman overdressed, yet

at the same time shabby, who had a far from well-bred or aristocratic

air. “Out of consideration for Madame de Talbrun,” she said, “the

convent consents to keep Mademoiselle de Nailles a few days longer--a

few weeks perhaps, until she can find some other place to go. That is

all we can do for her.”

Jacqueline listened to this sentence as she might have watched a game of

dice when her fate hung on the result, but she showed no emotion. “Now,”

she thought, “my fate has been decided; respectable people will have

nothing more to do with me. I will go with the others, who, perhaps,

after all are not worse, and who most certainly are more amusing.”

A fortnight after this, Madame de Nailles, having come back to Paris,

from some watering-place, was telling Marien that Jacqueline had started

for Bellagio with Mr. and Miss Sparks, the latter having taken a notion

that she wanted that kind of chaperon who is called a companion in

England and America.

“But they are of the same age,” said Marien.

“That is just what Miss Sparks wants. She does not wish to be hampered

by an elderly chaperon, but to be accompanied, as she would have been by

her sister.”

“Jacqueline will be exposed to see strange things; how could you have

consented--”

“Consented? As if she cared for my consent! And then she manages to say

such irritating things as soon as one attempts to blame her or advise

her. For example, this is one of them: ‘Don’t you suppose,’ she said to

me, ‘that every one will take the most agreeable chance that offers for

a visit to Italy?’ What do you think of that allusion? It closed my lips

absolutely.”

“Perhaps she did not mean what you think she meant.”

“Do you think so? And when I warned her against Madame Strahlberg,

saying that she might set her a very bad example, she answered: ‘I may

have had worse.’ I suppose that was not meant for impertinence either!”

“I don’t know,” said Hubert Marien, biting his lips doubtfully, “but--”

He was silent a few moments, his head drooped on his breast, he was in

some painful reverie.

“Go on. What are you thinking about?” asked Madame de Nailles,

impatiently.

“I beg your pardon. I was only thinking that a certain responsibility

might rest on those who have made that young girl what she is.”

“I don’t understand you,” said the stepmother, with an impatient

gesture. “Who can do anything to counteract a bad disposition? You don’t

deny that hers is bad? She is a very devil for pride and obstinacy--she

has no affection--she has proved it. I have no inclination to get myself

wounded by trying to control her.”

“Then you prefer to let her ruin herself?”

“I should prefer not to give the world a chance to talk, by coming to an

open rupture with her, which would certainly be the case if I tried to

contradict her. After all, the Sparks and Madame Odinska are not yet put

out of the pale of good society, and she knew them long ago. An early

intimacy may be a good explanation if people blame her for going too

far--”

“So be it, then; if you are satisfied it is not for me to say anything,”

replied Marien, coldly.

“Satisfied? I am not satisfied with anything or anybody,” said Madame de

Nailles, indignantly. “How could I be satisfied; I never have met with

anything but ingratitude.”

CHAPTER XVI. THE SAILOR’S RETURN

Madame D’Argy did not leave her son in ignorance of all the freaks and

follies of Jacqueline. He knew every particular of the wrong-doings and

the imprudences of his early friend, and even the additions made to

them by calumny, ever since the fit of in dependence which, after her

father’s death, had led her to throw off all control. She told of her

sudden departure from Fresne, where she might have found so safe a

refuge with her friend and cousin. Then had not her own imprudence and

coquetry led to a rupture with the families of d’Etaples and Ray? She

told of the scandalous intimacy with Madame Strahlberg; of her expulsion

from the convent, where they had discovered, even before she left, that

she had been in the habit of visiting undesirable persons; and finally

she informed him that Jacqueline had gone to Italy with an old Yankee

and his daughter--he being a man, it was said, who had laid the

foundation of his colossal fortune by keeping a bar-room in a mining

camp in California. This last was no fiction, the cut of Mr. Sparks’s

beard and his unpolished manners left no doubt on the subject; and she

wound up by saying that Madame d’Avrigny, whom no one could accuse

of ill-nature, had been grieved at meeting this unhappy girl in very

improper company, among which she seemed quite in her element, like a

fish in water. It was said also that she was thinking of studying for

the stage with La Rochette--M. de Talbrun had heard it talked about in

the foyer of the Opera by an old Prince from some foreign country--she

could not remember his name, but he was praising Madame Strahlberg

without any reserve as the most delightful of Parisiennes. Thereupon

Talbrun had naturally forbidden his wife to have anything to do with

Jacqueline, or even to write to her. Fat Oscar, though he was not all

that he ought to be himself, had some very strict notions of propriety.

No one was more particular about family relations, and really in this

case no one could blame him; but Giselle had been very unhappy, and to

the very last had tried to stand up for her unhappy friend. Having told

him all this, she added, she would say no more on the subject.

Giselle was a model woman in everything, in tact, in goodness, in good

sense, and she was very attentive to the poor old mother of Fred, who

but for her must have died long ago of loneliness and sorrow. Thereupon

ensued the poor lady’s usual lamentations over the long, long absence

of her beloved son; as usual, she told him she did not think she should

live to see him back again; she gave him a full account of her maladies,

caused, or at least aggravated, by her mortal, constant, incurable

sorrow; and she told how Giselle had been nursing her with all the

patience and devotion of a Sister of Charity. Through all Madame

d’Argy’s letters at this period the angelic figure of Giselle was

contrasted with the very different one of that young and incorrigible

little devil of a Jacqueline.

Fred at first believed his mother’s stories were all exaggeration,

but the facts were there, corroborated by the continued silence of the

person concerned. He knew his mother to be too good wilfully to

blacken the character of one whom for years she had hoped would be her

daughter-in-law, the only child of her best friend, the early love of

her son. But by degrees he fancied that the love so long living at the

bottom of his heart was slowly dying, that it had been extinguished,

that nothing remained of it but remembrance, such remembrance as we

retain for dead things, a remembrance without hope, whose weight added

to the homesickness which with him was increasing every day.

There was no active service to enable him to endure exile. The heroic

period of the war had passed. Since a treaty of peace had been signed

with China, the fleet, which had distinguished itself in so many small

engagements and bombardments, had had nothing to do but to mount guard,

as it were, along a conquered coast. All round it in the bay, where it

lay at anchor, rose mountains of strange shapes, which seemed to shut

it into a kind of prison. This feeling of nothing to be done--of nothing

likely to be done, worked in Fred’s head like a nightmare. The only

thing he thought of was how he could escape, when could he once more

kiss the faded cheeks of his mother, who often, when he slept or lay

wakeful during the long hours of the siesta, he saw beside him in tears.

Hers was the only face that he recalled distinctly; to her and to her

only were devoted his long reveries when on watch; that time when he

formerly composed his love verses, tender or angry, or full of despair.

That was all over! A sort of mournful resignation had succeeded his

bursts of excited feeling, his revolt against his fate.

This was Fred’s state of mind when he received orders to return

home--orders as unexpected as everything seems to be in the life of a

naval man. “I am going back to her!” he cried. Her was his mother, her

was France. All the rest had disappeared as if into a fog. Jacqueline

was a phantom of the past; so many things had happened since the old

times when he had loved her. He had crossed the Indian Ocean and the

China Sea; he had seen long stretches of interminable coast-line; he

had beheld misery, and glory, and all the painful scenes that wait on

warfare; he had seen pestilence, and death in every shape, and all this

had wrought in him a sort of stoicism, the result of long acquaintance

with solitude and danger. He remembered his old love as a flower he had

once admired as he passed it, a treacherous flower, with thorns that had

wounded him. There are flowers that are beneficent, and flowers that are

poisonous, and the last are sometimes the most beautiful. They should

not be blamed, he thought; it was their nature to be hurtful; but it was

well to pass them by and not to gather them.

By the time he had debarked Fred had made up his mind to let his mother

choose a wife for him, a daughter-in-law suited to herself, who would

give her the delight of grandchildren, who would bring them up well,

and who would not weary of Lizerolles. But a week later the idea of this

kind of marriage had gone out of his head, and this change of feeling

was partly owing to Giselle. Giselle gave him a smile of welcome that

went to his heart, for that poor heart, after all, was only waiting for

a chance again to give itself away. She was with Madame d’Argy, who had

not been well enough to go to the sea-coast to meet her son, and he

saw at the same moment the pale and aged face which had visited him at

Tonquin in his dreams, and a fair face that he had never before thought

so beautiful, more oval than he remembered it, with blue eyes soft and

tender, and a mouth with a sweet infantine expression of sincerity and

goodness. His mother stretched out her trembling arms, gave a great cry,

and fainted away.

“Don’t be alarmed; it is only joy,” said Giselle, in her soft voice.

And when Madame d’Argy proved her to be right by recovering very

quickly, overwhelming her son with rapid questions and covering him with

kisses, Giselle held out her hand to him and said:

“I, too, am very glad you have come home.”

“Oh!” cried the sick woman in her excitement, “you must kiss your old

playfellow!”

Giselle blushed a little, and Fred, more embarrassed than she, lightly

touched with his lips her pretty smooth hair which shone upon her head

like a helmet of gold. Perhaps it was this new style of hairdressing

which made her seem so much more beautiful than he remembered her, but

it seemed to him he saw her for the first time; while, with the greatest

eagerness, notwithstanding Giselle’s attempts to interrupt her, Madame

d’Argy repeated to her son all she owed to that dear friend “her own

daughter, the best of daughters, the most patient, the most devoted of

daughters, could not have done more! Ah! if there only could be found

another one like her!”

Whereupon the object of all these praises made her escape, disclaiming

everything.

Why, after this, should she have hesitated to come back to Lizerolles

every day, as of late had been her custom? Men know so little about

taking care of sick people. So she came, and was present at all the

rejoicings and all the talks that followed Fred’s return. She took her

part in the discussions about Fred’s future. “Help me, my pet,” said

Madame d’Argy, “help me to find a wife for him: all we ask is that she

should be like you.”