Paul Frager is a young man of a tall and elegant figure, with delicate
and regular features. His black hair, cut close to his head, gives
energy to his sweet expression. He has beautiful black eyes, frank
and sincere, that look you full in the face. His dark heavy moustache
can not hide his dazzlingly white teeth. He has many friends. No one
can help loving that warm and sympathetic heart, always ready for any
sacrifice to love or friendship. His manly strength would lead one to
doubt the almost womanly tenderness and delicacy of sentiment which
seem to be the foundation of his character. Admitted to the bar when
very young, he has since lived quietly on a small income, inherited
from his father, collecting material for a work on comparative
legislation, which he hopes to publish some of these days.
Each year he travels two or three months, usually afoot, studying the
manners and customs of different countries. Two years ago, he traveled
in this way through Italy. Perhaps next year he may go to England.
Up to the year 1872, his life was as calm as a lake in Scotland on a
Summer evening. His mother's second marriage took place at this time,
and ever since his friends had noticed a great change in him. He became
still more absorbed in his studies; became silent and almost morose.
Then another change was noticed in him; his gaiety seemed to return.
But suddenly, one morning, he left Paris and established himself at
Canet, a pretty little fishing village, which lies stretched out
sleepily like a great lizard, basking in the sun, on the shore of the
Mediterranean.
When he had returned from his morning's ride with Odette, he sat down
to his work by the open window. He heard from time to time the heavy
waves breaking against the rocks below. He was gazing out of the window
at the glorious panorama of water and clouds, when he heard a knock at
the door. He called out, "Come in," without turning his head. The door
opened with a creak, and some one entered.
"It is I, my dear fellow! Of course, you did not expect to see me; but
I wished to have a little talk with you."
At the sound of this voice, Paul turned around quickly, and with
evident astonishment:
"You? Can it be you--here?"
"Yes; here I am, returning from Italy with your mother. I did not want
to pass so near you without dropping in to see you."
He was a man about forty years old, very tall, broad-shouldered, and
strikingly handsome. His hair, slightly gray, covered only the back and
sides of his head. He was elegantly but very simply dressed--the ribbon
of the Legion of Honor at his button-hole.
Claude Sirvin, in 1876, was at the height of his fame and renown. Life
had only caresses to offer him. When very young, he won the great
"prix de Rome" by his "Death of Beaurepaire." As usual, wealth and
honor accompanied success, and he stepped at once to the front rank
among artists. He was a man of the world at the same time, and allowed
himself to be made love to by the dozens of pretty little fools who are
always ready to throw themselves at the head of any celebrated man.
Having always plenty of money at his command, he lived the life of a
prince, spending freely and enjoying life to the utmost. But he always
kept his glowing, devoted passion for his art free from the least stain
or impurity. It was his religion, his faith, his God. He was admitted
to the Institute in 1873. A few months later, a rumor arose that Claude
was Claude no longer--Claude was going to be married; then that Claude
was married.
At first, no one would believe the absurd report. Every one added his
witticism, to the effect that it was impossible. What would become
of all the forsaken Ariadnes? Then arose a story that he had married
a Russian princess, with eleven millions in her own right. (No one
knew why she always had exactly eleven millions.) Then, another story
was heard, that he had married a little actress out of the "Comédie
Française." When the truth first came out, his friends were dumb with
astonishment. They learned that Claude had married a Creole widow,
of small fortune and exquisite beauty. Elaine was a very cultivated,
refined woman, and she fascinated Claude by her gentle, womanly
dignity.
Paul offered an easy chair to his step-father, and sat down facing him.
"Well, my dear Paul, you are still the same. You can not conceal your
thought that my visit is a disagreeable surprise to you."
"Sir!"
"Never mind--I am not annoyed; but we must have an important
conversation together--may be a long one. You were studying as I came
in. Can you give me your attention for an hour or two?"
"My time is at your disposal, sir; and, since you have taken the
trouble to come and visit me, I should be very impolite if I did not
express myself as grateful for your kindness."
"Thank you, my dear Paul. I have only one request to make, and that
is, that you will give me your attention. First, I must recall the
past. In tropical countries, girls marry young. You were born when Mme.
Frager was only fifteen years old. For eighteen years, she devoted her
whole life to you. You were eighteen years old when I first saw your
mother. I was deeply interested in her from the first moment. Although
thirty-three years old, she barely appeared twenty-five. I was so
fortunate as to please her. The noble woman had brought you to manhood.
Her task might be considered as accomplished. I begged for her hand,
and she made me the happiest of mortals by granting my request. Ever
since that time, you have been opposed to me. The time has now come to
put an end to this misunderstanding. Before my marriage, I confess, my
life was not what it should have been. As you grow older, dear Paul,
you will learn that one of the first virtues in this world is charity.
I confessed my faults to your mother. She, alone, had the right to
condemn me. She forgave me, and I had the inestimable happiness of
giving my name to the one I love and reverence more than all else on
earth. I regret to awaken these painful memories, but I am coming to
our unfortunate disagreement; you have never forgiven me for marrying
your mother. I was never angry at you. Children are always more or
less selfish in their affections. You never reflected that, after
having consecrated the best years of her life to you, your mother had
the right to think at last of her own happiness. In short, you were
offended at her marriage with me, and separated yourself entirely from
us, leaving your mother, who loved you so tenderly, turning your back
on me, who was anxious to give you the affection of an older brother.
But, instead of being angry, we only respected you the more. Such pride
shows that you are warm-hearted and impulsive. You will understand
that, under ordinary circumstances, I should never have intruded upon
you; but the cause of my journey here was the anxiety aroused by your
last few letters to your mother."
Paul was listening with the greatest attention. Claude Sirvin was
speaking with all his heart in his words, and Paul could not help being
touched by them. The artist talked, as he painted, with his whole soul.
His voice was sometimes tender and sweet, then it rose to firmness,
according to the thought he was expressing. This eloquence was what
made him so dangerously fascinating to women.
He continued: "Now we come to the cause of my visit. I have spoken
of our anxiety. For some time past, your letters have been feverish,
glowing, nervous, and it is easy to guess that you are in love at last."
Paul started visibly, blushed, and then grew pale, trembling violently.
Claude gently took his hand:
"Do not say anything. Wait till I have finished. You love a young girl.
Is it not so? I was sure of it, Paul. Love, with you, is not merely a
violent caprice, as it is with some. Your heart belongs to her, once
and for all; and, that frightens you, for you say to yourself: 'I can
not marry. I am poor.' Have I not guessed aright?"
"Ah, sir," replied Paul, sadly, "every one of your words is truth. I
love a young girl, but I can not describe her--you would think me a
fool; and, then, there are no words strong enough to do her justice. It
is absurd, I know, but you understand. I met her in Paris last Winter,
at a party. And, to think that at first I did not notice her! She went
to the piano, and played some sonata or nocturne, with her soul shining
bright in her glorious eyes. I felt at once that I belonged no longer
to myself, but to that young girl, so calm, so unconscious." Paul was
completely carried away by the remembrance of that evening. He was
again under its magic spell. He continued: "After that first interview,
I was introduced to her, and seized every opportunity to be with her.
Now you know the reason of my burying myself at Canet for the Winter.
It is because she is staying hardly a mile away. You have been talking
to me in a way that has opened my heart, and I have replied with
frankness and truth."
"Thank you. That is what I expected. But, now, why are you not happy
in your love? There are two reasons; either the young lady is poor,
and you dread to offer her your small fortune, knowing that a life of
straightened circumstances is often worse than absolute poverty; or
else she is rich, and you are too proud to have her think you can be
actuated by interested motives.
"Ah! that is it? You see that our affection for you has caused us to
guess right once more. Now, what is the use of a father and mother,
except to smoothe away difficulties? What is mine is your mother's. Do
not deny it. That is law, you know. Mme. Frager was poor when she gave
me her hand, and I had the happiness of presenting her with the wealth
she was so fitted to adorn. Let me add that every year a small sum has
been set aside from our abundance, for your marriage-portion. It now
amounts to a little more than three hundred thousand francs. You know
that I can make all the money I need with my brush; so it is a mere
trifle for me. You can, you must, accept it as it is offered. Now, you
can go to your loved one, and say: 'I am no longer poor. I love you.
Will you accept my love?'"
Paul was deeply moved. This man, who had been showing him such
thoughtful tenderness, he had bitterly hated for four years, for Claude
was right; he had never forgiven him for coming between his mother and
himself. He could not speak. Tears of gratitude and joy stood in his
eyes. Claude understood his emotion, and gently pressed his hand.
"How good you are!" finally exclaimed the young man. "Not content
with surpassing every one by your genius, you have the best heart in
the world! You are right. An offer like yours should be accepted as
generously as it is made. I will not swear an eternal gratitude. It is
not necessary. You know me well enough to know that I am now bound to
you for life!"
Claude was delighted. His really kind heart was pleased with the signs
of Paul's happiness--his work; and then, he was flattered at having won
the heart of this obstinate rebel at last. Claude was accustomed to
charm every one around him, and, was he to blame if he took a certain
pride in his rôle of universal fascinator?
"And now," he continued, "will you not tell me her name?"
Paul hesitated. "Will you forgive me, if I wait until I have proposed
to her? Oh, Heavens! if she should not love me!"
Claude smiled at his step-son. He was thinking that he, too, had
known the pangs and joys of youth and love, which the first gray hair
banishes for ever! He repeated, half sadly, Metastasio's immortal
couplet:
"O jeunesse! printemps de la vie--
O printemps! jeunesse de l'année."
Then, "Now we must separate. You can go to her, and I will return to
your mother, at Hyères, and announce the success of my mission. You can
bring us her answer, and we will all come to Canet, for, of course, she
will say 'Yes!'"
So they separated with no further words. The hearts of both were too
full. To tell the truth, Claude was the happiest of the two, as, to
receive is merely a delight, while to give is the purest and sweetest
of all happiness!