Christmas Eve came with an unloading of all the countless tons of
snow that had lain pent up behind those skies of leaden grayness.
The Seine froze in thin crackling patches, Paris and the surrounding
country lay under two feet of snow. Kraus, Klaus, Schmidt, and Klein
of the Army of United Germany told each other gleefully that it was
going to be a real German Christmas, after all. Nearly every man had
packed up and sent a French clock or a porcelain vase as a seasonable
gift to his family in Germany, or some article of furniture of a
bulkier kind. Now upon the side of the senders of these love gifts
was a great unpacking of strongly smelling parcels directed in
well-known characters, and containing cakes, sausages, pudding,
loaves of black bread, cheeses, barrels of Magdeburg, sauerkraut, and
salt meat to eat with it, sweets, tobacco, cigars, and pipes. Each
hospital and barracks, camp and quarters displayed elaborate
preparations for merrymaking; the most distant outpost wore a festive
air. Wagonloads of holly, ivy, and mistletoe creaked over the snow.
Miniature forests of fir trees, large and small, had been cut down,
and set up in tubs of earth for the festival.
French eyes regarded these preparations upon the part of their foes
with curiosity. For Catholics there would be Midnight Mass at the
churches--by consent of the German authorities!--Holy Communion--and
some sort of supper--possibly none this War Christmas--upon the
return from Church. But this setting out of tables of presents under
the fir-branches adorned with colored tapers hung with
child-rejoicing trifles such as gilt nuts and gingerbread, apples and
sugar plums; this singing of carols; Luther's "_Euch ist ein Kindlein
heut geboren_," with "_Der Tannenbaum_," and "_Stille Nacht, Heilige
Nacht_," the frequent references to Santa Claus and his sack, and the
Christkind--apparently regarded as a benevolently disposed Puck or
Brownie, was to the adult non-German inhabitants of Versailles
excessively puzzling, unless they happened to be English Protestants.
Of these honest Britons there was a fair sprinkling, the majority of
them being exceedingly depressed and out-at-elbows refugees from
Paris, whose exodus from the city in the previous month of November
had been achieved under the auspices of the British Government, and
the personal superintendence of Lord Henry Fermeroy, Secretary of
Lord Lyons's Embassy at Paris, armed with a safe conduct from General
Trochu.
Despite his low-bosomed vests, Imperial, and French accent, this
sprig of British nobility behaved like a man. From the old lady who
brought a tin bonnet box full of jewelry and a case containing a
stuffed pug, with the prayer that these heirlooms might be taken care
of at the Embassy, and the courtesan, Cora Pearl, who requested
formal permission to carry on business, during the siege, under the
protection of the British Flag, as from each individual unit of the
army of distressed Britishers who flocked to seek his aid or counsel,
Lord Henry earned gratitude, and praise, and good-will.
When the provisions and money subscribed to the Fund for the aid of
the many destitute English residents in Paris were at an end, he did
not hesitate to dip his hand into his own breeches pocket. His
shining patent-leather boots carried him not only into the attics and
cellars where grim Starvation crouched on a bed of damp straw. They
tripped over the Aubusson carpets of the drawing-rooms where Genteel
Famine sat sipping hot water out of Sèvres cups, wherewith to quell
its gnawing pangs, and retired, without having trodden upon a single
corn during the accomplishment of their owner's charitable errand.
He bombarded Count Bismarck with official Notes, until he had
obtained permission from that grim Cerberus for his little army of
refugees to pass the Prussian lines.
Of his dreary three days' journey in charge of the string of country
carts containing the exiles, who were permitted to travel to
Versailles via the Porte Charenton, Brie-Comte-Robert, and Corbeil,
Lord Henry afterward penned a Narrative. Which literary effort,
printed, bound in cloth of a soothing green, and adorned with a
Portrait of the Author, the young man bestowed upon his friends.
Perhaps you can see the blue eyes of Juliette peering between the
frost flowers encrusting the window of her bedroom on the second
floor, which commanded a view of the garden of the Rue de Provence.
She had, upon the previous evening, received an intimation from the
Minister that she would be permitted to take exercise regularly in
the garden between the hours of nine and ten. Thus with a throbbing
heart, she dressed the shining tresses so long concealed under Madame
Charles Tessier's chenille net and white shawl, and arrayed herself
in the plain black silk skirt and bodice that we have seen once
previously--looped over a cloth petticoat of the same mourning hue.
She sought for, found, and put on the gray velvet jacket trimmed with
Persian lambskin, and the little gray toque that matched it,
despoiled of its azure feather. These things, with many others, had
been packed away in a trunk and stowed in the attic now occupied by
Madame Potier, when Mademoiselle had departed for Belgium under the
charge of Madame Tessier.
She wound a white silk scarf about her throat, tied on a veil, and
found herself wishing for a knot of violets to brighten the pale,
somberly clad reflection in the looking-glass.... Color ... and her
Colonel's grave lying under the first-fallen snow.... She blushed
deep rose for very shame of her own vanity, and then in all
conscience the picture was bright enough.
The pleasance, like the rest of the world, lay under a mantle of
sparkling whiteness. The orderlies and grooms had already cleared
and scraped the paths in the vicinity of the house. The ring of the
shovels and the swish of the brooms might be heard in the distance.
Mademoiselle sighed, thinking of Jean Jacques Potier.
Then timidly she stole down by the back staircase and passed through
the hall door into a world all glittering. The keen air was as
exhilarating as champagne. It breathed on her cheeks, and renewed
the roses that had bloomed there when she had frowned at the girl in
the mirror. The frost kissed her eyes, and they sparkled like
sapphire-tinted icicles. She tripped down the short curved avenue,
passed the gardener's cottage, and turned into the kitchen garden.
Not that she was looking for anybody there.
All through the autumn and winter in a sheltered corner had bloomed a
large standard rose tree of the hardy, late-flowering kind. The
storms of October had passed over and left its fragrant pink blooms
unscathed, the bitter winds and night frosts of November had done no
more than brown the edges of an outer petal. The tree in its
fragrance and beauty, and its strange immunity from hurt of wind and
weather, had been an unfailing source of pleasure to Juliette. When
an overblown flower shed its leaves, she had gathered up and kept
them. When a new bud plumped and bravely unfolded, her heart had
known a delicate thrill of joy.
So Mademoiselle went on into the kitchen garden, whose paths had not
been cleared of snow. There was her tree--standing in its corner,
but buried to the lower branches in a drift that had formed in this
sheltered angle of the southward wall.
The roses had met their match at last. Drooping and yellow, sodden
and heavy, they had no more courage or hope to give away. Juliette
kissed both her hands to them, in farewell, and turned to encounter
P. C. Breagh.
The green baize apron and other integuments of the late Jean Jacques
Potier had been replaced by the old brown Norfolk suit so often
mentioned in these pages. It had been sedulously brushed and his
linen was scrupulously white, and he had bestowed infinite pains upon
the knot of the black silk, loose-ended tie. His cropped hair would
grow again, and his broad red smear of eyebrow was echoed on his
upper lip by a young but decidedly red mustache with rather fuzzy
corners. The pleasant lips smiled at sight of her, and a hot flame
leaped into the gray-and-amber eyes. Her own could not be likened to
sapphire icicles now. They were tender, and her long upper lip was
haunted by flying smiles that came, and vanished, and came again.
"It is you! Ah, my friend," she said, "I am so glad--I am so glad!"
He caught the gloved hands she stretched out to him, and held them in
his, that were reddened with Jean Jacques Potier's labors, and kissed
them eagerly. The little gray gloves were not buttoned--his warm
lips feasted unchecked upon each blue-veined wrist, until she told
him breathlessly:
"No more!--there must be no more!... Pray cease, my friend!"
She had withdrawn her hands.... He said with a catch in his breath
and with eyes that implored her:
"I do not offend you?..."
She looked at him full and drew off one glove and laid the bare hand
in his extended palm. Warm and soft, it seemed incredibly small as
it lay there. The touch of it infused a melting sweetness; a thrill
went through the man from head to foot. Perhaps the thrill was
communicated, for she drew her hand away quickly. She said:
"You are very generous to one who has so often deceived you.... How
many times I have condemned myself for my wickedness, thinking: 'Of
all those noble deeds I have described in the letters, not one has
been really performed by M. Charles Tessier.... All are invented to
make a good face!'"
He said in a whisper:
"I could forgive you for making even a worse fool of me--now I know
you never were married! It was your telling me that knocked me out
of time.... Nothing else mattered much afterward.... You said to
Monseigneur yesterday that it was to retain your place in this house
you pretended to be the wife of its master. But why did you pretend
it in the first place to _me_?"
She began to change color from pale to red, and tried to free her
hand. It was impossible. He said:
"I mean to know.... I have the right to know!..."
She faltered:
"See you well, Monsieur, I cannot explain...."
He said doggedly:
"Then I shall explain it for you. You told me that to make me
jealous! Now, did you not?"
She winced.
"Monsieur ... not then!... Upon my faith, I assure you.... See you
well, I had promised my father that M. Charles should be my
husband.... I would have kept that promise _à tout hasard_ ... had
M. Charles not married Mademoiselle Basselôt. And so I told you I
was married, not then to make you jealous ... that came after. But
to make it ... possible to be true!"
He almost reeled under the sudden shock of the terrible, exquisite
confession. He would have given a year of life to let himself go
with the sweet roaring current that tumbled foaming through his veins
and sent its red sparkling bubbles to his brain. But there were
steps and voices on the other side of the high laurel hedge that
divided the kitchen garden from the pleasance. He recognized
Bismarck-Böhlen's snigger and Hatzfeldt's lazy, well-bred
accents--telling an anecdote of the Minister one could not doubt.
The languid voice reached their ears distinctly. It said:
"He was an officer of French Imperial Hussars, who had been taken
prisoner at Sedan, and had broken his _parole_. He had been taken
again in arms against us, fighting under General Chancy at Le Mans.
So she comes post-haste to Versailles, lays siege to the King, who
will not see her--to the Crown Prince, who will not see her--and
finally to Moltke, who will not see her, because all three of them
are cowards at the sight of a woman's tears. Finally the Chief
consents to receive her.... It was yesterday, in his room at the
Prefecture. She comes in--all in black, which to a blonde of her
type is very suitable, full of hope at not being made to _croquer le
marmot_ for long. She reels off a long tale about her Frederic, his
bravery, and his excellent heart. The Chief listens sympathetically,
looking at the clock from time to time. Again the heart is pressed
upon his notice. It is heavy with grief at the thought of a life
parting from Madame, who is Frederic's mistress, by the way--and not
his wife!... It is weighed down with suspense at the delay of the
Prussian _Kriegsrath_ in answering the loved ones his prayer.... She
gets so far, when the Chief looks up at the clock, and says, touching
his table bell: 'Madame, that excellent heart of your client is even
heavier than it was five minutes ago....' 'How, Monseigneur?' cries
Madame. 'He was shot,' says the Chief, 'just now when I looked up at
the clock. And, as a rule, seven out of the ten bullets shot off by
the firing party are found to have lodged in the region of the
heart.' So the poor woman screamed and fainted. They carried her
past me with her teeth set and all her fine hair hanging down...."
Bismarck-Böhlen's snigger greeted the _dénouement_. The footsteps
grew fainter. Juliette and Breagh exchanged glances. She said with
white lips:
"Monseigneur can be merciless! And yet, when I heard him tell my
mother that did he know of my hiding place, he would not betray it, I
said to myself: '_How you have misjudged this man!_'"
Her comrade had started at the reference to Madame de Bayard,
remembering the rendezvous to be kept that night. Juliette went on,
with a liquid look:
"Monsieur, I have a favor to ask of you.... All those weeks when I
struggled with that purpose from which you tried so faithfully to
dissuade me, I did not once dare to set foot in Our Lord's House.
But when I threw away that wicked bottle, I found that I could pray
once more.... I went to the Carmelite Fathers and made my
confession.... I received Our Lord in the Holy Communion ... and my
soul began to be at peace again. Now it is Christmas Eve and I
should much like to attend the Midnight High Mass, or the Second Mass
at daybreak, and I had intended to ask you to take me, but I am upon
_parole_.... Therefore, I entreat of you--pray for me when you make
your own Communion. How much I need Divine pardon and guidance ...
even you can hardly know...."
His conscience stung. He had not intended to evade the sacred
obligation, yet he had wavered as to when he should comply with the
command of the Church. He said:
"It shall be as you ask. I shall attend High Mass at the Church of
the Carmelites at midnight. Afterward, I have an appointment--at a
place some distance from here."
"So late, Monsieur?"
Her glance had not only surprise in it, but fear for him. He said
lightly:
"Very late.... I may not get back until--some time near the second
breakfast.... Madame Potier will have some hot coffee ready for
me...."
She flushed and knitted her small hands together anxiously. She
asked:
"Could you not--could you not take me into your confidence?"
He said bluntly:
"Not without myself committing a breach of confidence...." He added,
holding out his strong hand: "Try to trust me. If it were possible
to tell you, I would do it, you must know."
"I know it, and I trust you, Monsieur, always...."
There was faith in her eyes. He kissed her hands and released them,
and turned with her silently.... They walked back together as far as
the house.