according to the polite custom of his country. "We have some things in
common; we see much from the same point of view; accident made me a
Frenchman and a priest, and I would not have it otherwise; but I think
that I could also have been very happy as an Englishman and a member of
your Church. Here I think that we meet half-way; for if I find myself so
much in touch with an Englishman, you seem to me in still closer union
with the French nature."
Then he gave us his card and asked us if we would go and see him.
"Do not be afraid," he laughed; "I will not try to convert you--pervert,
you would call it. I think we are both too broad-minded to meddle with
things that do not concern us. Here, I am the guest of the Bishop, but
he is absent, and will only return the day before my departure. It is a
pity, for he would charm you by many delightful qualities, though he may
not be quite so tolerant as I."
We parted with an understanding that it was to meet again, and went our
different ways. We consigned our traps to the omnibus, H.C. for once
trusting his precious treasures out of sight, but retaining his umbrella
with all the determination of an inquisitor inflicting torture upon a
fellow mortal. A short avenue brought us to the river, which flowed
through the town, and, not without reason, had been condemned by
Catherine. We crossed the bridge and went down the quay. It was lined
with trees, and in fine weather is rather a pleasant walk. The chief
hotels of the town are centred here, and some of the principal shops and
cafés. It is fairly bustling and lively, but not romantic.
We had been recommended to the Hôtel de l'Epée as the best in Quimper,
and soon found ourselves entering its wide portals; a huge porte-cochère
that swallowed up at a single mouthful the omnibus and the piled-up
luggage that had quickly followed us from the station.
Ostlers and landlord immediately came forward with ladders and other
attentions, and we were soon domiciled.
It was a rambling old inn, with winding staircases, dark and dirty, and
guiltless of carpet. The walls might have been painted at the beginning
of the century, but hardly since. "In fact," said H.C., "they look quite
mediæval." There were passages long and gloomy, in which we lost
ourselves. Ancient windows let in any amount of draught and rain, and
would have been the despair of old maids. But we were given a large
room, the very essence of neatness, and beds adorned with spotless
linen. A chambermaid waited upon us, dressed in a Breton cap that was
wonderfully picturesque, and made us feel more in Brittany than ever.
She had long passed her youth, but possessed a frank and expressive
face, and was superior to most of the hotel servants. In early life she
had lived with a noble family, and had travelled with them for many
years. She had seen something of the world.
Our windows looked on to the back of the hotel, in comparison with which
the front was tame and commonplace. Below us we saw an accumulation of
gables and angles; a perfect sea of wonderful red roofs, with all the
beauty and colouring of age. Some of them possessed dormer windows, that
just now reflected the afterglow of sunset; small dormer windows high up
in the slanting roofs that perhaps had reflected the changes of light
and shade, and day and night, for centuries. Here and there we traced
picturesque courtyards and gardens that were small oases of green in
this wilderness of red-roofed buildings. On the one side flowed the
second river of Quimper, on the other, like a celestial vision, rose the
wonderful cathedral. A dream, a vision of Paradise, it did indeed look
in this fast falling twilight. The towers, crowned by their graceful
spires, rose majestically above this sea of houses. Beyond, one traced
the outlines of pinnacle and flying buttress, slanting roof and
beautiful windows.
We were just in time for table d'hôte, and groped our way down the dark,
winding stairs. The way to the dining-room lay through the bureau, where
Madame sat in state at her desk, entertaining a select party of friends,
who had evidently called in upon her for a little scandal and
conversation. She was a tall, majestic woman, with a loud voice, and
apparently a long life before her; but at a second visit we paid Quimper
not long after, she, too, had passed into the regions that lie "beyond
the veil."
The dining-room was long and large and crowded. Most of the people at
table were evidently commercial travellers, and more or less habitués of
the place. All the women who served wore those wonderful Brittany caps,
and quite redeemed the room from its common-place elements.
The shades of night had quite fallen upon the old town when we went out
to reconnoitre. It would only be possible to gain a faint and scarcely
true impression of what the town was like. At night, new things often
look old, and old new, outlines are magnified, and general effects are
altogether lost. The river ran down the quay like a dark and sluggish
thread; there was no poetry or romance about it. The banks were built up
with granite, which made it look more like a canal than a river. To be
at all picturesque it wanted the addition of boats and barges, of which
just now it was free and void. The trees whispered in the night breeze.
On the opposite bank, covering a large space, a fair was holding its
revelry; a small pandemonium; shows were lighted up with flaring gas,
and houris in spangles danced and threw out their fascinations. Big
drums and trumpets made night hideous. The high cliffs beyond served as
a sort of sounding-board, so that nothing was lost.
We turned away and soon found ourselves in the cathedral square. Before
us rose the great building in all its majesty, distinctly outlined
against the dark sky. In Brittany, one rather hungers for these fine
ecclesiastical monuments, Normandy is so full of them that we miss them
here. Brittany has the advantage in its old towns, but the mind
sometimes asks for something higher and more perfect than mere street
architecture.
[Illustration: BRITTANY PEASANT.]
Therefore, even to-night, in the darkness, we revelled and gloried in
the magnificent cathedral that stood before us in such grand
proportions. The spires seemed to touch the skies. The west front was in
deep shadow. We traced the outlines of flying buttresses, of heavier
buttresses between the windows, of the beautiful apse. The windows,
faintly lighted up, added wonderfully to the effect. Surely the church
was not closed? We tried the west door, it yielded, and we entered.
The interior was in semi-darkness; a gloom that almost inspired awe; a
silence and repose which forbade the faintest echo of our footsteps.
Pillars and aisles and arches could be barely outlined. Everything
seemed dim and intangible; we felt that we were going through a vision,
there was so little that was real or earthly about it; so much that was
beautiful, mysterious, full of repose and saintly influence. The far
east end was lost in obscurity, and we could barely trace the outlines
of the splendid roof. Far down, near a confessional, knelt a small group
of hooded women, motionless as carven images. Their heads were bowed,
their whole attitude betrayed the penitential mood. There might have
been eight or ten at most, and they never stirred. But every now and
then a fair penitent issued from the confessional box; and, cloaked and
hooded, glided back to the seat she had lately occupied, and resumed the
penitential attitude. The ceremony was drawing near its end when we
entered, and when all was over they rose in a group and, noiselessly as
phantoms, like spirits from the land of shadows, passed down the long
aisle and disappeared into the night.
It was a strange hour for confession, and there must have been some
special reason for it. They were strangely dressed, too, in their silken
cloaks and hoods, as if they belonged to some religious order, or some
charitable institution. We wondered much.
When the west doorway had closed behind them, and not before, the priest
left his box, and we started as we recognised our fellow traveller. How
came it that he was confessing so soon after his arrival, or confessing
at all, in a church to which, as far as we knew, he was not attached?
His tall and portly form looked magnificent and commanding as he stepped
forth into the shadowy aisle, and, preceded by a verger, or suisse,
bearing a lighted flambeau and a staff of office, was soon lost in the
sacristy.
We lost ourselves in dreams. It is wonderfully refreshing to fall out of
the influence of the crowded and commonplace world into these silent
resting-places, which whisper so much of Heaven, and seem to breathe out
a full measure of the spiritual life. They seem steeped in a religious,
a celestial atmosphere; just as, on the Sabbath, in quiet country
places, far from crowded haunts, surrounded only by the beauties of
nature, there seems a special peace and repose in earth and sky, and
people say to each other, "One feels that it is Sunday."
But we were very nearly in danger of prolonging our dreams until the
night shadows passed away, and the day-dawn broke and lighted up that
far-off east window. H.C. was a very broken reed to trust to on such
occasions. He was not only wrapped in visions--his spirit seemed
altogether to have taken flight. I was rudely brought back to earthly
scenes and necessities by hearing the key hastily turned in the west
door by which we had entered, and the verger commencing to retrace his
steps, preparatory to putting out the lights and departing himself
through the sacristy.
We hurried up to him, having no mind to pass the night in silent
contemplation, with the pavement for couch and a stone for pillow. The
influence we had just experienced must have given us "pallid sorrowful
faces," for the verger almost dropped his torch, and his keys fell to
the ground and awoke mysterious echoes in the distant arches.
It was a weird, wonderfully expressive scene. The torch threw lights and
shadows upon aisle and arch, which flickered and danced like so many
ghosts at play, until our nerves felt overwrought and our flesh creeped.
In our present mood it all seemed too strange, too mysterious for earth.
We felt as if we had joined the land of shadows in very truth. But the
verger's voice awoke us to realities: a very earthly voice, unmusical
and pronounced, not at all in harmony with the moment. It grated upon
us; nevertheless, under the circumstances, it was good hearing.
"Sirs, you are very imprudent," he cried. "You might have been locked up
for the night, and I promise you that it is neither warm nor lively in
this great building at three o'clock in the morning. You also alarmed
me, for I took you for ghosts. I have seen them and believe in them, and
I ought to know. When I die I am persuaded that I, too, shall visit
these haunts, whose pavement I have trod with staff and torch for fifty
years. I took you for ghosts, look you, for you seem harmless and
peaceable, incapable of visiting these sacred aisles for sacrilegious
purposes."
We felt flattered. The countenance is undoubtedly the index to the inner
man, though it is not given to everyone to read the riddle. It was
consoling to hear that we did not exactly look like midnight assassins.
"I have never come across anyone like this before," continued the
verger. "I was not in the least prepared for you. What could have
induced you to come in and contemplate all this darkness, and risk being
locked up for the night? If I had been at the other end when I
discovered you, I should have fled, quite sure that you were ghosts. I
tell you that I have seen ghosts, but I do not care to converse with
them; they rather frighten me."
"Those fair penitents," murmured H.C. "They looked very graceful and
picturesque; therefore they ought to be very pretty. Could I go and see
them, and make a sketch of them? Do you think they would admit me? Are
they nuns?"
"They are not nuns, or they would not be here," returned the old verger.
"But they do a great deal of good. For my part I should say their
confession was superfluous. They can have no sins. _I_ never go to
confession. What could I say? My life is always the same. I get up in
the morning, open the church; lock it up at night, go to bed. I eat my
meals in peace, do harm to no one, am in charity with all men. There is
my life from January to December. What have I to confess?"
"You are an extremely interesting character, but not so interesting as
the fair penitents," said H.C., bringing him back to the point from
which he had wandered. "Who are they, and can I go and call upon them?"
"I don't believe they would admit you if you took them an order from the
Pope," returned the old verger emphatically. "Without being nuns, they
have taken a vow of celibacy, and live in partial retirement. No man is
ever admitted within their portals, excepting their Father Confessor,
and he is old and ugly; in fact, the very image of a baboon. A very good
and pious man, all the same, is his reverence, and very learned. These
ladies teach the children of the poor; they nurse the sick; they have a
small orphanage; and they are full of good works."
"Why were they here to-night?"
"Whenever that very holy man, the Reverend Father, visits Quimper, they
always make it a point of going to confess to him the very first night
of his arrival. The good Mother of the establishment, as she is called,
is his cousin. I am told that she is Madame la Comtesse, by right, but
renounced the world for the sake of doing good. The Reverend Father
arrived only this evening by train. He went straight to the palace, took
a bouillon, and immediately came on here. He is a great man. You should
come on Sunday and hear him preach. There have been times when I have
seen the women sob, and the men bow their heads. But it grows late,
sirs. It is not worth while opening that west door again. If you will
follow me, I will let you out by the sacristy. We will lock up together,
and leave this great building to darkness and the ghosts."
And ghosts indeed there seemed to be as we followed him up the aisle. He
put out the few lights that remained, until his torch alone guided our
footsteps, which sounded in the immense space, and disturbed the
mysterious silence by yet more mysterious echoes. Lights and shadows
cast by the torch flitted about like wings. The choir gates were closed,
and within them all was darkness and solemnity. Finally we entered the
sacristy, where again the surplices hanging up in rows looked strange
and suggestive. The old verger opened the door, extinguished his torch,
and we stood once more in the outside night, under the stars and the
sky.
"How often we come in for these experiences," said H.C. "How delightful
they are; full of a sacred beauty and solemnity. How few ever attempt to
enter a cathedral at night, and how much they lose. And yet," he mused,
"perhaps not so much as we imagine. If their souls responded to such
influences, they would seek them out. The needle is attracted to the
pole; like seeks like--and finds it. You cannot draw sweet water from a
bitter well."
The town was in darkness. The shops were now all closed, but lights
gleamed from many windows. The beautiful latticed panes we had found in
Morlaix were here very few and far between. Here and there we came upon
gabled outlines, but much that we saw seemed modern and unpicturesque;
very tame and commonplace after our late experience in the cathedral.
The streets were silent and deserted; all doors were closed; the people
of Quimper, like those of Morlaix, evidently carried out the good old
rule of retiring early. Occasionally we came upon a group of buildings,
or a solitary house standing out conspicuously amidst its fellows, which
promised well for the morrow, and made us "wish for the morning."
When we found our way back to the quay, all was in darkness. The fair
had put out its lights, closed its doors, and dismissed the assembly.
Where the people had gone to, we knew not; we had seen none of them. A
few cafés were still open, and their lights fell across the pavement and
athwart the roads, and gleamed upon the rustling trees. We turned in to
the hotel, where all was quiet. The night was yet young, but the
staircases were in darkness and we had to grope our way. Decidedly it
was the most uncivilized place we had yet come to, and Catherine was not
very far wrong in her judgment.
[Illustration: A BRITTANY SERVANT.]
The next morning we awoke to grey skies. "It always rains at Quimper,"
said Catherine, and she was only quoting a proverb. There was something
close and oppressive and depressing about the town. The air was
enervating. The hotels were unfavourably placed. The quays were
commonplace--for Brittany. There was nothing romantic or beautiful about
the river, which, I have said, resembled a canal. Its waters were black
and sluggish, confined, as they probably were, by locks. In front rose
high cliffs which shut out the sky and the horizon and heaven's
glorious oxygen. We many of us know what it is to dwell for some time
under the shadow of a great mountain. Gradually it seems to oppress us
and crush down upon us until we feel that we must get away from it or
die of suffocation. Here there was a heaviness in the air which taxed
all our mental resources, our reserve of energy, our amiability to the
utmost.
The cathedral by daylight should be our first care, and we found it
worthy of all the effect it had produced upon us last night. All its
mystery and magic had gone, but all the beauty and perfection of
architecture remained. Certainly we had seen nothing like it in
Brittany.
It is dedicated to St. Corentin, a holy man who is supposed to have come
over from Cornwall in the very early ages of the Christian era. Quimper
was then the capital of the Cornouaille, a corruption, as we can easily
trace, of the word Cornwall. The cathedral, commenced about the year
1239, was only completed in 1515. The spires are modern, but of such
excellent workmanship and design that they in no way interfere with the
general effect. The harmony of the whole is indeed remarkable when it is
considered that it was nearly three centuries in process of
construction. The west front is very fine and stately, with deep portals
magnificently sculptured. It was commenced in 1424, and is surmounted by
two flamboyant windows, one above the other. Within the contour of the
arch is a triple row of angels, sculptured with a great deal of artistic
finish. Time, however, whilst beautifying it, has robbed it of some of
its fineness.
The towers were also commenced in 1424, and the great bell of the clock
which they contain dates from 1312. The north and south doorways are
both fine. The latter is dedicated to St. Catherine, and a figure of the
saint adorns a niche in the left buttress. Both portals possess scrolls
bearing inscriptions or mottoes, such as, A ma Vie, one of the mottoes
of the House of Brittany. In the pediment of the west doorway is the
finest heraldic sculpturing that the Middle Ages of Brittany produced.
In the centre, the lion of Montfort holds the banner of Brittany, on
which may be read the motto of Duke John V.: Malo au riche duc. In the
corner to the left are the arms of Bishop Bertrand de Rosmadec, stamped
with the mitre and crozier, and the motto, En bon Espoir. Many other
mottoes, such as Perac (Wherefore?); A l'aventure; Léal à ma foy; En
Dieu m'attens, belonging to different lords of Brittany, will also be
found here.
The effect of the interior is extremely grand and imposing. It is of
great height, whilst the side chapels and outer aisles give it an
appearance of more breadth than it deserves. The apse is polygonal. The
principal nave, with its large arches, its curved triforium, and its
flamboyant windows, bears the mark of the fifteenth century. The choir
is thirteenth century, and possesses a triforium with a double gallery,
surrounded by gothic arches supported by small columns, of which the
capitals are extremely elegant.
The church has a peculiarity which is not often found, at any rate in so
pronounced a manner. The chancel is not in a line with the nave, but
inclines to the left, or north. Thus, in standing at the west end, only
a portion of the apse can be seen. The effect is singular, and, at the
first moment, seems to offend. But after a time the peculiarity becomes
decidedly effective. The stiffness of the straight line, of the sides
running exactly parallel one with the other, is lost. One grows almost
to like the break in the uniformity of design. It appeals to the
imagination. Certain other cathedrals incline in the same way, but in a
more modified form. The architects' reasons for thus inclining the choir
are lost in obscurity. By some it has been supposed that their motive
was purely effect; by others that it was in imitation or commemoration
of our Lord, Who, when hanging upon the cross, inclined His Head to the
left.
Many of the windows are old, and add greatly to the fine effect of the
interior. Those in the nave date from the end of the fifteenth century.
Some of those in the choir--unfortunately the most conspicuous--are
modern; but a few are ancient. The whole interior has suffered in tone
by restoration and scraping.
The high-altar is richly decorated with enamels and precious stones. The
tabernacle--in the centre of which is a figure of the Saviour in the act
of blessing--is flanked by twelve arcades, containing the figures of the
Apostles in relief, holding the instrument of their martyrdom. It is
crowned by a cross with double rows, or branches, at the foot of which
are the evangelists with their symbolical animals. The lower arms of the
cross bear the figures of the Virgin and St. John weeping at the feet of
the crucified Redeemer.
Amongst the treasures of the cathedral are preserved three drops of
blood, of which the following is the legend:--
A pilgrim of Quimper, on starting for the Holy Land, had confided a sum
of money to a friend. On returning, he claimed the money, but the friend
denied having received it, offering to take an oath to that effect
before the crucifix in the church of St. Corentin. At the moment of
raising his hand to take the oath, he gave a stick that he carried to
his friend to hold. The stick was hollow and contained the gold. As soon
as he had taken the oath, the stick miraculously broke in two, and the
money rolled on to the pavement. At the same moment the feet of the
crucifix, held together by a single nail, separated, and three drops of
blood fell on to the altar. These drops were carefully absorbed by some
linen, which is preserved amongst the treasures of the church. The
miracle is reproduced in a painted window of one of the chapels.
Last night we had seen the interior in the gloom and mystery of
darkness; this morning we saw it by the dim religious light of day. It
was difficult to say which view was the more impressive. The results
were very different. We now gazed upon all its beauty of detail, all the
harmony of perfect architecture. The coloured rays coming in through the
ancient stained windows added their glamour and refinement to the scene;
to those that were more modern we tried to shut our eyes. The lofty
pillars of the nave, separating the aisles, rose majestically, fitting
supports for the beautiful gothic arches above them, in their turn
surmounted by the triforium; in their turn again crowned by the ancient
windows. Above all, at a great height, came the arched roof. Thus the
eye was carried up from beauty to beauty until it seemed lost in
dreamland. Wandering aside, it fell upon the aisles and side chapels,
visions of beauty interrupted only by the wonderful columns, with their
fine bases and rich capitals. The east window seemed very far off, a
portion of it lost in the curve to the left, together with the beautiful
gothic arches and double triforium of that side of the choir.
We sat and gazed upon all, and lost ourselves in the spell of the
vision; and presently our old friend the verger found us out.
"But you _live_ in the cathedral!" he exclaimed.
"No," we replied; "we should only like to do so. We envy you, whose days
are chiefly passed here."
"I don't know," he returned, with the resigned air of a martyr. "If you
had trodden this pavement for fifty years as I have, I think you would
like to change the scene. And I have not the chance of doing it even in
the next state, for you know I have a conviction that I shall come back
here as a ghost. I thought _you_ were ghosts last night, and a fine
fright you gave me. I don't know why ghosts should frighten one, but
they do. I don't like to feel that when I get into the next state, and
come back to earth as a ghost, I shall frighten people. It would be
better not to come back at all."
"What are they like, those that you have seen?" we asked, out of
curiosity.
He closed his eyes, as if invoking a vision, put on a very solemn
expression, and then opened them with a wide stare into vacancy. We
quite started and looked behind us to see if any were visible.
"No, they are not there," he said. "They only come at night. How can I
describe them? How can you describe a shadow? They are all shadows, and
they seem everywhere at once. I never hear them, but I can see them and
feel them. I mean that I feel them morally--their influence: of course
you cannot handle a ghost. The air grows cold, and an icy wind touches
my face as they pass to and fro."
"Then if the wind is icy they cannot come from purgatory?" suggested
H.C. very innocently.
The old verger seemed a little doubtful; the idea had not occurred to
him. "I don't know about that," he said. "I have heard that the extremes
of heat and cold have the same effect upon one. So perhaps what feels
like ice to me is really the opposite. But my idea is that the ghosts
who appear on earth are exempt from purgatory: to visit the scenes of
their former haunts under different conditions must be sufficient
punishment for their worst sins."
[Illustration: QUIMPER.]
So that our verger was also a philosopher.
"Have you never spoken to one, and made some inquiry about the next
world?" we asked. "Have they never given you some idea of what it is all
like?"
"Never," he replied. "I am much too frightened. Just as frightened now
as I was when I first saw them fifty years ago. Nor would they reply.
How can they? How can shadows talk? I only once took courage to speak,"
he added, as if by an after recollection. "I thought it was the ghost of
a woman who promised to marry me, and then jilted me for a journeyman
cabinet-maker. He treated her badly and she died at the end of two
years. Somehow I felt as if it was her spirit hovering about me, and I
took courage and spoke."
"Well?"
"I received no answer; only a long, long sigh, which seemed to float all
through the building and pass away out of the windows. But it was a
windy night, and it may have been only that. For if shadows can't talk,
I don't see how they can sigh."
The old verger evidently had faith in his ghosts. The fancy had gained
upon him and strengthened with time into part of himself; as inseparable
from the cathedral as its aisles and arches.
"Have you never tried the experiment of passing a night in these old
walls?" we asked.
"Once; thirty years ago."
"And the result?"
He turned pale. "I can never speak of that night. What I saw then will
never be known. I cannot think of it without emotion--even after thirty
years. Ah, well! my time is growing short. I shall soon know the great
secret. When we are young and going up-hill, we think ourselves
immortal, for we cannot see the bottom of the other side, where lies the
grave. But I have been going down-hill a long time; I am very near the
end of the journey, and see the grave very distinctly."
"Yet you seem very happy and cheerful," said H.C.
"Why not?" returned the old verger. "Old age should not be miserable,
but the contrary. The inevitable cannot be painful and was never
intended to be anything but a source of consolation; I have heard the
Reverend Father say so more than once. Shall you come and hear him
preach next Sunday? The whole place will be thronged. He spoke to me
about you this morning--it must be you--I have just been to the Evéché
for his commands--and said that in case you came I was to reserve two
places for you inside the choir gates--quite the place of honour, sirs.
You will see and hear well; and when preaching, it is almost as good to
watch him as to listen. Ah! I have been here fifty years, but I never
saw his equal."
"And the Bishop?"
"I never make comparisons; they must always be to the disadvantage of
one or the other," replied this singular old man. "And now I must away
to my duties."
"One word more," said H.C. hastily. "Will those picturesque ladies come
again to Confession to-night?"
"To-night!" he returned reproachfully. "Do you think those virtuous
creatures pass their lives in sinning--like ordinary beings? No, no.
Besides--enough's as good as a feast, and they were well shriven last
night. They are now reposing in the odour of sanctity. Au revoir,
messieurs. I see your hearts are in the cathedral, and I know that I
shall meet you here again before Sunday."
He departed. We watched his stooping figure and his white hair moving
slowly up the aisle, so fitting an object for the venerable building
itself. He disappeared in the sacristy, and a few moments after we found
ourselves without the building, standing in the shadow of the great
towers, under the grey skies of Quimper.
TO MY SOUL.
_From the French of Victor Hugo._
You stray, my soul, whilst gazing on the sky!
The path of duty is the path of life!
Sit by the cold hearth where dead ashes lie,
Put on the captive's chain--endure the strife.
Be but a servant in this realm of night,
O child of light!
To lost and wandering feet deliverance bring;
Fulfil the perfect law of suffering;
Drink to the dregs the bitter cup; remain
In battle last; be first in tears and pain--
Then, with a prayer that much may be forgiven,
Go back to Heaven!
C.E. MEETKERKE.
SO VERY UNATTRACTIVE!
"Yes," meditated pretty Mrs. Hart; "I suppose it would be invidious to
pass her over and ask the other three, but I would so much rather have
them."
"Cannot you ask the whole four?" suggested her sister.
"Does it not strike you as being almost too much of a good thing? You
see, our space is not unlimited."
"Ask the three eldest," said Bertie Paine decidedly.
"But I do not want her. What use is she? She can sing, certainly, but
you cannot keep her singing all the evening; and the rest of the time
she neither talks nor flirts. And she is altogether so very
unattractive," ended Mrs. Hart, despondently.
"Who is it?" asked the handsomest man in the room, strolling up to the
group by the window. "Who is this unfortunate lady? I always feel such
sympathy with the unattractive, as you know."
"Naturally," laughed Mrs. Hart. "The individual in question is a Miss
Mildmay, a plain person and the eldest of four sisters."
"Mildmay? Who are they? I used to know people of that name, and there
were four girls in the family. One of them--her name was Minnie, I
remember--promised to grow up very pretty."
"So she is; Minnie is the third. They are certainly your friends, Mr.
Ratcliff. They are all pretty but the eldest, and all their names begin
with M: Margaret, Miriam, Minnie, and Maud. Absurd, is it not?"
"Somebody had a strong fancy for alliteration. So Miss Mildmay is
plain?"
"Very plain, very dull, very uninteresting," said Mrs. Hart and her
sister in a breath. "Much given to stocking-knitting and good works."
"And good works comprise?" quoth Mr. Ratcliff, interrogatively.
"She sat up every night for a week with Blanche Carter's children when
they had diphtheria, and saved their lives by her nursing," said Elsie
Paine indignantly. "That is the woman that those good people sneer at.
You are not fair to her, Mrs. Hart. She has a sweet face when you come
to know her."
"There, you have put Elsie up," cried mischievous Bertie. "No more peace
for you here, Mrs. Hart. Come out into the garden with me, and postpone
this question in favour of tennis."
The conclave broke up and Mark Ratcliff said and heard no more of
Margaret Mildmay. He betook himself to solitude and cigars, and as he
strode over the breezy downs he wondered what a predilection for
stocking-knitting and good works might signify in the once merry girl,
and if they might be possibly a form of penance for past misdeeds.
"She did behave abominably," he said to himself, flinging a cigar-end
viciously away into a patch of dry grass, which ignited and required
much stamping before it consented to go out. "Yes, she behaved
abominably, and at my time of life I might amuse myself better than in
thinking of a fickle girl. Poor Margaret! stockings and good works--she
might have done as well taking care of me!"
Then he lit another cigar, put up a covey of partridges, remembered how
he used to shoot with Margaret's father, told himself that there was no
fool like an old fool--not referring to Mr. Mildmay in the least--and
took himself impatiently back into the town.
And there he did a very dishonourable thing.
A bowery lane ran at the bottom of the gardens attached to a row of
scattered villas, picturesque residences inhabited by well-to-do people;
and along the bank were placed benches here and there, inviting the
passer-by to rest.
From one of the gardens came the sound of quiet voices, one of which he
knew, though it had been unheard for years. He sat himself deliberately
down upon the bench conveniently near the spot, and hearkened to what
that voice had to say.
"Sing to me, Margaret, dear," pleaded the other speaker. "I am selfish
to be always wanting it, I know, but it will not be for long now, and if
you do not sing me 'Will he Come?' I shall keep on hearing it till I
have to try to sing it myself, and that hurts."
"Hush, Ailie. You know I will sing," and Mark Ratcliff held his breath
in surprise as the notes of the song rose upward.
Margaret used to sing, but not like this. Every note was like a winged
soul rising out of prison. He had never heard such a voice before. No
wonder that Mrs. Hart had said that she could sing, and no wonder that
this sick girl wanted to hear it. By the way, this was one of the good
works, of course!
"Rest to the weary spirit,
Peace to the quiet dead,"
repeated Ailie as the song died away. "He never came, Margaret, and he
never will come to me. It may be wicked, but I could die gladly if I
could see him first and know that he had not betrayed me. It is terrible
to lie drifting out into the dark without a word from him!"
"Dear Ailie, why do you make me sing this wretched song? Why do you try
to dwell on the thought of faithless loves? Have patience a little; your
letters may yet find him."
"Too late. In time for him to drop a tear over my grave and tell you
that he never meant to hurt me," cried the girl hysterically. "Oh,
Margaret! Why do I tell you all the anguish that eats upon my heart? If
you could only know the comfort you are to me! the blessed relief of
lying in your arms and telling you what nobody else could forgive or
understand! You are the best person I know, and yet you never make me
feel myself lost beyond redemption."
"You are talking nonsense, darling," said the voice of the very dull
person.
"Am I, you pearl of womanhood? What would you say if I told you all the
fancies I have about you? Ah, Margaret, I do not want to know that you
have had your heart broken by a false lover!"
"My dear, I was always a plain and unattractive person, just as I am at
this day," answered Margaret in a voice of infinite gentleness. "But why
should you not know? There are more faithless than faithful lovers, may
be; the one I had grew tired of so dull a person and he went away. That
was all."
Then the two women moved away towards the house and the garden lay in
silence.
Mark Ratcliff sat stiff with astonishment.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed at last. "She flings all the blame on me! The
whole treachery was hers, and this is positively the coolest thing that
ever I heard. Faithless lover, indeed! When she dismissed me with actual
insult! But a woman with such a voice might do almost anything, you
plain and unattractive Miss Mildmay!"
He lit another cigar, rose in leisurely fashion and sought the way to
the front entrances of the villas. Under the shade of the
horse-chestnuts, which his critical eye decided to be, like himself and
Margaret, approaching the season of the sere and yellow leaf, he
loitered, smoking and watching, and counting up the years since he had
waited and watched for the same person before.
At last the right door opened and down the steps came a very
sober-looking and unconscious lady. She was thinking of nothing but the
dying girl from whom she had just parted.
"Margaret!"
She started violently. She knew the voice well enough, but after these
years it was impossible that it should be sounding here.
"Margaret!" he said again imperatively.
"Mr. Ratcliff," she faltered. "I did not expect to see you again."
"Your expectations seem to be a little curious," he replied, surveying
her coolly. "There is a great deal that you have to explain to me. What
do you mean by calling me a false lover?"
"Who told you that I accused you of falsehood?" she asked, dropping the
book she was carrying in her surprise. "If I did you could scarcely
contradict me, but this is not quite the place for such discussions."
He possessed himself of the book and led the way to the public gardens,
where the principal walks offered privacy enough at an hour when most of
the world was busy over tennis. Children and nursemaids do not count as
intruders on privacy.
"See here, Margaret, I was eavesdropping under the garden-fence, while
you talked with your sick friend, and I heard you giving me a famously
bad character. At least," suddenly recollecting himself, "unless I have
made a fool of myself, and it was somebody else you meant."
Margaret said nothing.
"Had you ever any other love?"
"Never," said she, and the colour flew up into her pale face. She did
not at all understand the accusation brought against her, or the
fierceness of the accuser.
"Then apologise at once for the charge you have brought against me."
She looked up at him with knitted brows. She wanted to look at him, but
her eyes would drop again immediately.
"Are you not unreasonable?" she asked. "Years ago you made love to me.
Then you went away. Your father was ill, and you could not choose but
go, but you gave me to understand that you were coming back to me. You
never came. Do you call that faithfulness?"
"I wrote."
"Never."
"Margaret!" he cried indignantly. "I wrote and had your answer. Are you
dreaming?"
"You never wrote. In my life I never wrote to you."
"Good heavens! When I have your letter in my pocket! I wrote to you
asking if I might come back as your accepted lover, and you sent me this
in return," said he, giving her the paper for which he had searched his
pocket-book.
She took it and looked it over. When she gave it back her glance was
fixed far away over the miraculous river that ran with mimic waterfalls
through the gardens, and she was ghastly pale.
"I did not write that," she said. "You ought to have known it."
"It is your signature and your hand."
"It is like my hand. I never signed myself M. Mildmay. How could I, when
we were all M. Mildmay?"
A light broke in upon him. They were all M. Mildmay, of course, and he
remembered a long-forgotten feud with Miriam. He bit his lip and stamped
his foot angrily. What a fool he had been!
"I am sorry," said Margaret humbly. "For all the world I would not have
insulted you, and it is cruel that you should have had to think it of
me. I do apologise for any share I have had in it."
Her heart and throat were almost bursting with agony as she spoke in
those quiet tones, and he stamped away up the path with his back to her.
"Margaret!" he said, coming back and seizing her hands. "I thought I was
case-hardened, but just tell me that you loved me then!"
"I love you now," she answered, crying a little. "I am not of the sort
that changes in the matter of loving. Is it bold to say that, and I so
unattractive?"
"Hang your unattractiveness! Margaret, just say, 'I love you, Mark
Ratcliff,' and set me some atoning penance for my idiocy. You do not
know what a curse that vile paper has been to me," and he shot the
offending missive into the foolish little river and broke into vigorous
and ungraceful language with regard to the writer.
"Hush, hush!" cried Margaret, in deep distress. "She is my sister, and
she could not know how much it meant to me."
"Of course not! And what did it matter to her that I must go hungry and
thirsty all these years, cursing the whole of womankind because you had
tricked me!"
"Oh, why did you distrust me?" exclaimed she sorrowfully, leaning back
against the holly arbour in which they had sheltered, and bursting into
downright weeping.
"What an amiable desire you evince to throw the fault on me, Margaret,"
and he drew her hands from her face very gently; "must there be tears
now that I have found you again? Forgive me, dear. I was worse than a
fool to doubt you, but now we will leave room for no more possibilities
of trouble and parting. I am going to find out that other poor
distrusted beggar, your friend Ailie's lover, and let him know what you
women accuse him of, and when I come back, we shall see!"
"See what?" gasped Margaret.
"What we shall see!" he returned, triumphantly.
* * * * *
"Awfully sorry to have been late for dinner, Mrs. Hart," said Mr.
Ratcliff, without the least appearance of distress, when he joined the
ladies in the drawing-room; "I was unavoidably detained. By the way,
your party is not for another month, I think?"
"No," she replied, wondering why her handsome friend looked so gleefully
mischievous. "I have fixed upon the thirtieth; I do not want to clash
with Mrs. Dent and Mrs. Clarence."
"Then I am commissioned to tell you that you may invite all the Misses
Mildmay, without the least inconvenience. Miss Mildmay the undesirable
will not be in a position to accept your invitation. It is anticipated
that she will then be on her wedding tour as Mrs. Mark Ratcliff."
"Good gracious! How sudden!" exclaimed Mrs. Hart, opening her pretty
blue eyes to their widest extent; and for the life of her she could not
help adding under her breath, "And she so very unattractive!"
MADEMOISELLE ELISE.
BY EDWARD FRANCIS.
I.
M. Lorman, director of the Théâtre Royal, Rocheville, stood at a window
of Mademoiselle Elise's apartment that looked on the Rue Murillo, Paris.
His gloves were drawn on, he carried his hat and stick, and he waited
impatiently--now smoothing his grey moustache, now looking at his watch,
now tapping his well-polished boot with the tip of his cane. Then he
turned his back to the window and began to walk to and fro. At the
second turn, he paused before a picture--a little water-colour
sketch--that hung from the wall. It was a painting of a girl dressed in
a rich costume of the Empire. Her slight figure was bent a little
forward, and her tiny hands drew back a pale green skirt, just so much
as to show one dainty pink shoe. M. Lorman adjusted his spectacles to
make a closer inspection.
The door of the room opened, and Mademoiselle Elise came in, carrying an
open note-book in her hand.
Mademoiselle was about twenty-four years of age, and not tall, her
figure was slender and well-proportioned, her dress fitted perfectly.
Her hair and eyes were dark, her lips thin. When she talked her features
grew animate, and she became beautiful.
"Yes," she said, "you may take rooms for me at the Hôtel St. Amand. I
want to be close by the cathedral."
Then she looked at the picture.
"Did you recognise me?"
"Of course. But who did it? It is charming."
"It is very nice. Bouvard painted it and gave it to me. I am very fond
of it."
"It is an excellent likeness!"
"I think it is. I am vain enough to be proud of it. But tell me--what
shall I do with myself at Rocheville?"
"As if you were ever at a loss! You will have enough society; and there
are the students and the officers--"
"Bah! I am sick of them all. I shall turn recluse and spend all my days
in some quiet nook by the sea. After Paris, one hates society."
"After Paris," said M. Lorman, "one hates many good things."
He laughed self-complacently, and held out his hand.
"Good-bye."
She went with him to the hall, and waited, leaning against the table and
breaking to pieces a shred of grass that she had taken from a vase,
while he drew a great packet of loose papers from the breast-pocket of
his coat, and tried to discover the time of his train.
"Who will play the dance in 'Le vrai Amant?'" she asked.
"Monsieur Raoul--a man who fiddles for love of the thing. He is a
hunchback, or nearly so, and will interest you."
"Why will he interest me?"
Monsieur, as he answered, ran his gloved finger slowly down the line of
close figures.
"He will interest you for several reasons. Firstly, because he plays
superbly and asks for no pay. He is rich. Secondly, because he is clever
and dislikes women; and, finally--because you won't understand him."
Mademoiselle laughed defiantly.
"He is a gentleman, then?"
"Yes."
"Will he dislike _me_?"
"Perhaps I have used a wrong word. It is more disdain than dislike."
"Will he disdain me?"
M. Lorman replaced the papers in his pocket and looked with comic
gravity at her, as if to judge the effect she would be likely to have on
his friend. Then, his eyes twinkling with mischief, he answered
deliberately:
"Yes."
He took up his hat and stick and prepared to go.
"Eh bien," she retorted, "that is a challenge. You have found something
to occupy me. Adieu. Take care that my room faces the cathedral."
II.
Someone had gone out by the stage-door and the noise of the storm came
in along the low passage. The theatre was almost in darkness. Only
Monsieur Raoul and old Jacques Martin were there. In the shadow, as he
bent over his violin case, the younger man seemed tall and well-made;
but when he stood up, though he was tall, his bent shoulders became
apparent, and the light fell on a stern, pale face that seemed older
than its thirty years. He began to button his cloak around him.
"You might tell ma femme, Monsieur Raoul, that I shall be late. I must
prepare for to-morrow."
The old man and his wife kept house for Raoul, who was a bachelor.
"Assuredly I will tell her." Then Raoul went away.
The rain had ceased, but the scream of the wind sounded again and again.
The thin, weather-beaten trees bent low, like reeds; and heavy clouds,
suffused with moonlight, drove inland in rugged broken masses.
For a few moments Jacques lingered on; then he put out the lights,
locked up, drew his coat closer round his spare body, and hurried across
to the more cheerful shelter of the Café des Artistes.
In the Rue Louise the door of Raoul's house opened directly into the
kitchen. Madame Martin was sitting patiently by the fire, knitting. She
rose and took the violin case and wiped the raindrops from its
waterproof covering. Then she hung up Raoul's cloak.
"And Jacques, Monsieur?" she inquired.
"Jacques will be late. He bade me tell you, Julie."
"He is always late!"
"He has to prepare for Mademoiselle Elise, who comes to-morrow."
Raoul went to his room, and in a few moments Julie carried his supper up
to him there. Then, with the assurance of an old servant, she stood a
moment at the door, with her hands crossed before her.
"The new actress comes from Paris, Monsieur?"
"Yes."
"It will be a good thing."
"A very good thing--for the Théâtre Royal."
"She will require a great salary."
"Of course; but the proprietors will gain. Everybody will want to see
her."
"She lodges at M. Lorman's?"
"No. She will stay at the Hôtel St. Amand, opposite the cathedral."
"Is she old, Monsieur?"
"No, not old; not thirty years."
"Ah!--The sea is very rough to-night, Monsieur."
"Yes; more so than we often see it."
She went downstairs. By-and-by, as she sat knitting, she heard
Monsieur's fiddle as he played over a passage in the morrow's score.
III.
Mademoiselle Elise was down early at the theatre, which looked very grey
and very miserable in the pitiless daylight. M. Lorman was with her.
When Raoul appeared, she said:
"So this is your monster. Introduce him to me."
And the hunchback, with his fiddle under his arm and his bow hanging
loosely from his left hand, was duly presented. Mademoiselle's eyes
beamed graciously as she held out her hand and said what pleasure it
gave her to make the acquaintance of one who loved art for its own sake.
Then, while M. Lorman bustled here and there, she took the violin and
begged Raoul to show her how to hold it. She laughed like a child when
the drawing of the bow across the strings only produced a horrid noise.
Then she asked him to play the dance movement from the garden scene.
He played.
"A little slower, please."
He played more slowly. She moved a few steps, and then paused and sat
down, marking the time of the music with her foot.
"Yes, that is beautiful!" she said.
Raoul sat and watched while the rehearsal proceeded.
They played "Le vrai Amant." Mademoiselle infused a new life into all,
and scarcely seemed to feel the labour of it. Raoul marvelled that a
woman, apparently delicate, should be possessed of such tireless energy.
She criticised so freely, and insisted so much on the repetition of
seeming trivialities, that, as the morning wore on, Augustin--who was
"le vrai Amant"--lost patience and glanced markedly at his watch. But
she did not heed him.
Beside Raoul sat M. Lorman, in high spirits. "Good! good!" he ejaculated
at intervals. "But she is marvellous!" And after each outburst of
satisfaction he took a pinch of snuff.
When at last Mademoiselle sank exhausted into her chair, the others
seized hats and cloaks and fled hurriedly, lest she should revive and
begin all over again.
She called to Raoul to bring his score, that she might show him where to
play slowly and where to pause; and M. Lorman having wrapped a shawl
around her shoulders, she began gossiping with Augustin. When they
differed, she appealed to Raoul, and agreed prettily with his decision.
Augustin succumbed to her influence at once, and lost all his sulkiness.
He had played at the Odéon, and he knew what art was. M. Sarcey had said
of him that he would do well; and M. Regnier had been pleased to advise
him. He told Mademoiselle this, and he promised to bring to her a copy
of the _Temps_ that she might read the great critic's words for herself.
She ended the conversation with coquettish abruptness, and begged Raoul
to kneel beside her chair a moment, and follow her pencil as she marked
the manuscript and explained what her marks were intended to mean.
When Augustin had gone, she leaned back to where M. Lorman stood waiting
behind her.
"Beg of your friend," she said, "to be my chevalier and to protect me
from the dreadful people while I look at the sea."
Then at once, turning with a pleading glance towards Raoul, she added
with comic earnestness:
"Have mercy on me, Monsieur, I beseech you."
M. Lorman looked uncomfortable. There was an awkward pause. Then Raoul
stammered a fit reply and reddened, and, as he packed his violin away,
he muttered angrily: "Shall I never rid myself of this childish
sensitiveness? It is a shame to me that an accident has deformed me."
As Mademoiselle came from her room she whispered wickedly to M. Lorman:
"You may prepare your forfeit."
But he shook his head and laughed.
"No, no," he said. "Not yet; there is time enough."
* * * * *
Along the sea front the folk stared covertly at the new actress, as she
chatted volubly of the doings of the morning.
"Bah! they act badly--very badly," she said. "They should work
harder--they are too lazy. Work--work--work--that is the only cure for
them. But to-morrow they will do better, and we shall have a success."
Then she became more serious and talked of her own experience, and of
the long hours that she had spent in study. "Often I used to be so
tired," she said, "that I could not even sleep."
To his great astonishment Raoul found himself at his ease with her as he
discussed the necessity of steady labour and the uselessness of sitting
down and waiting for inspiration. In the heat of the argument they
reached the Rue Louise. The violin was handed in, and they turned back
again towards the sea. Madame held the door ajar to watch them.
Afterwards they strolled up through the town to the Place St. Amand.
Then, because he must be tired, Mademoiselle insisted that he should
stay and rest awhile, and they sat by the window like very old friends.
Finally, she permitted him to depart, in order, she said, that he might
get to sleep early and be strong for the morrow.
As she moved here and there in her room, she laughed quite quietly to
herself, and wondered what M. Lorman had meant when he had said that she
would not understand his friend.
IV.
Gerome Perrin, the collector, of Rouen, whose reputation as a
connoisseur in the matter of violins has never been questioned, once
offered Raoul for his violin six thousand francs. The mere record of
this offer will explain why the hunchback always carried the instrument
to and from the theatre. He held that he could only be quite sure of its
safety so long as it remained in his keeping. It was generally agreed
that the famous violin was heard at its best on the night that
Mademoiselle Elise made her appearance at the Théâtre Royal, Rocheville,
as Lisette, in "Le vrai Amant."
The theatre was crowded. In the first and second scenes the new actress
justified her fame, and won outright the sympathy of the audience. In
the third scene she surpassed herself. To Rocheville it was an artistic
revelation. Even the inveterate critics praised her, despite their
creed that, outside the Comédie Française, one should not seek
perfection.
The scene was the garden of an old château. In the bright light the
costumes of the players made a mass of rich colour. Mademoiselle stood,
prettily defiant. A ripple of music burst from the orchestra, and died
away in a stately movement. With a merry laugh the revellers posed for
the dance. They bowed low in courtesy--joined hands--advanced--retired.
Then Raoul's violin alone continued the measure, as, one by one, the
others drew away and left Mademoiselle alone. It was the Bouvard
water-colour, but living and moving. Her lithe, slender body seemed
light as air. Every gesture, every pose, was full of a grave dignity. In
the dark theatre there was complete silence. All eyes were centred on
the supple, graceful form of the dancer. Music, life, and colour were in
harmony. Gradually the full orchestra took up the strain
again--Mademoiselle, panting, flung herself into the ready arms of
Augustin, and the stillness was broken by the thunder of applause.
* * * * *
After the curtain had fallen, and while the folk were yet streaming out,
Jacques summoned Raoul to Mademoiselle's room. She met him with her
hands outstretched.
"Chevalier, you played beautifully," she said; "and I have never danced
better. You inspired me; you are my good angel. Come to me to-morrow and
take me to mass."
Is she acting still? he thought. He was not sure, but it was admirably
done. He felt her hands on his and he could only bow obedience and
escape as speedily as possible.
Before he went to bed he took a candle and placed it so that he might
see himself in the mirror. He gazed long and steadily as at a picture of
a stranger. He saw a man with black hair, with a pale, earnest face,
clean shaven, and with shoulders bent. In the darkness, afterwards, when
he remembered the face of Mademoiselle, as she came to him with her arms
outstretched, he remembered also what the mirror had shown him.
* * * * *
Mademoiselle, in her room at the Hôtel St. Amand, wrote to Paris:
"He is a hunchback and I have appointed him chevalier. Do not laugh, my
dear Hélène; you would not, if you could but see him. His sad eyes would
command your pity. His face is pale and stern, but handsome, and he is
kind and gentle. They say that he dislikes women; from what I have seen
of the women here I do not think he is altogether to blame. He is to
escort me to mass to-morrow. The good people will think that I am mad.
So much the better."
* * * * *
She laid her pen down and leaned back with her hands clasped behind her
head.
Suddenly the half smile faded from her lips, and a pained expression
flashed across her face. She sat up and finished the letter quietly. As
she rose to seal it she said to herself: "No; he is too good. A grande
passion would kill him."
For a week she gave herself up to Raoul's guidance. At the end of that
time she knew Rocheville almost as if she had lived her life there.
V.
A month passed. Mademoiselle Elise still retained her guide. Every
afternoon they wandered together somewhere or other; either through the
town, or by the sea, or in the woods. At a loss for any logical
explanation of the strange friendship, people assumed that the two were
old acquaintances. Mademoiselle never contradicted this assumption.
"He is my chevalier," she explained.
During the first few days, she commanded him with a playful authority,
and talked a great deal of nonsense, much as she would have talked with
any acquaintance for whom she felt but a passing interest. But it was
impossible to continue in this strain with Raoul. He treated her as a
reasoning being, and not as a creature fit merely to be humoured and
flattered. Despite herself she began to speak from her heart and without
any constraint. But she adhered honourably to her decision not to
inspire him with a grande passion, and to this end she conducted herself
with a simple propriety which recalled to her mind the convent
discipline of the gentle Ursuline Sisters, who had taught her her first
lessons.
Each day her respect for Raoul increased, as closer acquaintance
revealed his character. Finally, her respect became reverence. His
nature stood out in such strong contrast with the even, easy-going,
selfish natures of the others with whom she came into contact. He was
unlike them. He thought about life, they merely lived it. He seemed to
her to be superior to the common pains and pleasures of the world. She
could not imagine him being swayed by circumstances, by petty likes and
dislikes. She felt that it would be easy to bear any trouble with such a
friend near. His strong will attracted her. His impenetrable reserve and
the strange, stern mood that came over him at times mystified and almost
frightened her.
One day, on the Boulevard, they met the troops marching with quick step
into the town. She thought that he tried, involuntarily, to straighten
his shoulders as the stalwart figures passed. She seemed to know how the
sight of them must sadden him, and her heart became filled with an
inexpressible pity. But when he spoke, there was not the least tinge of
dissatisfaction in his voice.
"I admire their happy nonchalance," he said. "Unconsciously they are
very good philosophers. They take life as it comes to them and gauge it
at its true value."
"Yes," she said; "they are happy enough now. But it must be terrible in
war-time, to have to march straight to death."
"Do you think so?" he replied. "I doubt whether they perceive the terror
of it. It is part of their business to die."
"Do you not fear death?" she asked him afterwards.
He was silent for a moment. Then he said slowly: "I can quite imagine
circumstances in which death would be preferable to life."
"It is because life has been so unjust to him that he disdains it," she
thought.
Another evening, as they sat together, looking on to the square where
the women were selling flowers, he began, casually, to talk of himself.
He spoke impassively of the time, eight years before, when he had fallen
by accident, in the winter. For months he had lain in agony; and then
slowly he had returned, almost from the grave. In three years he had
regained his strength, but deformed for the rest of his life.
Her lips quivered ominously as she listened.
"It makes my heart ache to think of it," she said. "I could not have
borne it."
"You would have got used to it as I did," he replied.
"I would have prayed to die."
"There was no need. I could have died if I had chosen."
He spoke simply and without the least emotion. She shuddered.
"I do not understand," she said.
"Of course you do not understand," he answered gently; "neither do the
angels."
She made no response, but pressed her lips tightly together and
aimlessly watched the market-people.
When he had gone away, she sat for a long time quite still.
"If he had someone to love," she said to herself at last, "he would not
be so stern."
VI.
A fortnight later Raoul went on business to Rouen, and Mademoiselle was
left alone.
The first day of his absence she busied herself as usual, going down to
rehearsal in the morning and playing in the evening. But at night, for
some indefinable reason, she felt unhappy and discontented. The next
morning she sat in her room and sewed, and the hours seemed long--very
long. In the afternoon she went out and, almost irresponsibly, bought a
little present and carried it down to the Rue Louise to Madame Martin.
She stayed there and chatted until evening. Madame was delighted to find
anyone who would listen with pleasure to praise of Monsieur Raoul. The
third morning Mademoiselle said to herself "It would be pleasant to go
to Rouen and see the shops," and she dressed ready to start. Then her
face flushed and she took off her cloak again and set it aside. After
midday Raoul returned and brought her a great bunch of roses. Her face
beamed with pleasure as she took them, but immediately she became
self-conscious and disquieted and would not let her eyes meet his. After
he had gone she sat pensive, with a smile on her lips. Suddenly the
blood mounted to her face, her expression changed, she became agitated
in every nerve. "Of what folly do I dream!" she exclaimed. She went to
dress for the theatre and took the roses and placed them in water on the
table by her bedside. When she was ready to set out, she turned round,
raised the flowers to her lips and kissed them.
At the theatre she met him again and grew unaccountably nervous. It
needed all her power of will and all the prompter's aid to enable her to
retain the thread of her part. At times her mind would wander and she
would forget the words. Yet, to judge by the applause with which she was
rewarded, her acting did not suffer noticeably.
When the curtain fell, she complained that her head ached, and sent for
Raoul, and begged him to take her to walk by the sea, that the cool air
might restore her.
They walked down to the Rue Louise and left the violin and then strolled
on for half-an-hour by the water. Then they turned away to the Place St.
Amand. The square was deserted. A single lamp fluttered in the wind. The
stars shone brightly and the milky way stretched like a faint, pale
cloud high over the huge black mass of the cathedral.
She was leaning on his arm, and she made him pause a moment while she
stood to look up.
"If I were in pain," she said, after a moment, "or if a passion consumed
me, I should watch the stars all night. They are so cold and
passionless: they would teach me patience."
"You are beginning to talk poetry," he answered quietly, "and that shows
that you are tired out."
"Yes," she said, "I am tired out. To-morrow I shall be better, and we
will go to the woods."
Then she stood in the shadow of the hotel door and watched him until his
figure disappeared in the darkness.
VII.
The morning was bright and warm. The woods above Rocheville were brown
with autumn foliage, and the brambles were heavy with long sprays of
berries, red and black. Mademoiselle gave Raoul her cloak to carry, and
wandered here and there, gathering the ripest fruit. By-and-by she cast
away all she had gathered, and came to walk soberly beside him.
At St. Pierre, a little beyond the woods, they lunched merrily.
In the afternoon they strolled slowly back until they came to the brow
of the hill that rises to the west of Rocheville.
Overhead, white clouds floated in a clear blue sky. Below, the
purple-roofed houses huddled around the grey cathedral, and the distant
sea, flashing in the sunlight, broke against the yellow beach.
Beside the dusty hill path were rough seats. On one of these
Mademoiselle spread her cloak and rested, bidding Raoul sit on the grass
beside. The birds stirred in the trees, and the low, long surge of the
sea sounded monotonously.
* * * * *
It was after a long silence that Raoul looked up as if he were about to
speak. Their eyes met. He paled visibly. Her face became scarlet. With a
manifest effort he regained self-possession and stood up.
"It grows late, Mademoiselle," he said; "let us go home." And his voice
sounded dry and harsh.
She rose obediently. He wrapped the cloak about her, and they walked on
down the hill in silence, and entered the avenue that leads to
Rocheville. The swallows wheeled and fell in long graceful circles, and
the setting sunlight streaming through the trees made of the white road
a mosaic of light and shadow. The glow had faded from Mademoiselle's
face. Once as he moved her arm the cloak half fell. He replaced it
tenderly.
At the hotel door he kissed her hand and left her.
VIII.
For an hour he walked aimlessly, often baring his hair to the cold
sea-wind. Then he went back to the Place St. Amand and from under the
shrine at the corner watched her lighted window. Then he went home, and
until long past midnight sat without moving. Mademoiselle seemed to be
near him. He recalled every event of the day. The pleasant sunlight in
the woods; the merry nonsense of the lunch at St. Pierre; the homeward
walk; the distant heaving waters. The blood surged like fire through his
veins; he bowed down his face and groaned aloud.
Day by day he had maintained a secret battle with himself. The very
philosophy which had frightened and saddened Mademoiselle was evidence
of the bitter struggle, though she did not know this. If he had someone
to love, she had said mentally, he would not be so stern. She deceived
herself. It was because he wrestled with a passion that threatened to
overwhelm his reason that he wore so often the mask of sternness.
Early in the morning he left Rocheville for Rouen. Madame, when she
found his bed undisturbed, said to her husband that Monsieur must have
had bad news.
* * * * *
Mademoiselle woke from a fitful sleep with her head aching. She waited
anxiously, but Raoul did not come. It was past midday when M. Lorman,
with a grim smile, showed to her a note he had received.
"It is necessary for me to go to Rouen," it ran, "and I shall
probably remain there for a few days. I beg of you to excuse me,
and to convey my compliments and good wishes to Mademoiselle Elise
when she departs for Paris."
As Mademoiselle read she grew cold and shuddered.
M. Lorman eyed the untouched food on the table and smiled slily.
"You have won," he said. "I am your debtor. What is to be the forfeit?"
"I am not well to-day," she answered peevishly. "Don't be stupid,
please. What was it that you came to see me about?"
He looked embarrassed, and replied hastily:
"Nothing--I was passing, and called in on my way to meet Augustin. I
dare not stay. He will be waiting for me. I am sorry you are ill. You
must rest. Good-bye."
In the street he took out his snuff-box and excitedly inhaled two large
pinches.
"Parbleu!" he muttered; "it has surprised me. I didn't think it
possible."
Mademoiselle went to her bedroom and locked the door, as if to shut all
the world out from her. Then she cast herself down and sobbed as if her
heart would break. "Why did he not come to me?" she moaned. "Why did he
not let me know?--I cannot live without him."
At Rouen, Raoul engaged a room at the Hôtel de Bordeaux. Then he started
off to visit M. Gerome Perrin, but turned aside and went into the
country instead. The peasants saluted him as they passed, but he did not
reply. At times he talked half aloud and laughed bitterly.
Once he paused abruptly. It occurred to him that perhaps, after all, his
own vanity was misleading him. No doubt Mademoiselle had already
forgotten what had happened, and was wondering what had become of him.
"I must write to her," he said. And the idea that he was acting
unaccountably strengthened itself in his mind, and gradually he regained
the mastery of himself. Was it not stupid, he thought, to suspect that
Mademoiselle had discerned his secret. He had guarded it so carefully;
he had never given the least sign--until her eyes had robbed him of his
self-control. But to think that she should for a moment dream that a
hunchback would dare.--The idea was absurd. He began to see things
clearly again.
Half-an-hour later he turned and walked back to Rouen, paid his bill at
the Hôtel de Bordeaux, drove to the station, and took the train to
Rocheville. He had resolved to explain to Mademoiselle that he had been
called unexpectedly away.
M. Lorman frowned when Jacques came to tell him that Monsieur Raoul had
been able to return.
* * * * *
It was dark when Mademoiselle, pale and trembling, rose from her bed,
her face wet with tears. She lighted a candle and began to write. Note
after note she altered and destroyed. When at length she had written one
to her liking, she sealed it up. Then she put on her cloak and went down
towards the Rue Louise.
IX.
Outside, the rain pattered against the window; within Jacques and his
wife sat at supper. Someone tapped at the door and Madame went to open
it: "Ciel!" she cried. "But you are wet!"
Mademoiselle Elise spoke with quickened breath as if she had been
hurrying.
"I only come to see Jacques--Jacques do you know where Monsieur Raoul is
staying at Rouen? I have a message for him."
Jacques looked at his wife. It was she who answered: "Monsieur returned
unexpectedly this afternoon, Mademoiselle; he is upstairs now."
The muscles of Mademoiselle's face twitched as with a sudden pain. A
look of terror came into her bright eyes. She rested her hand on the
chair beside her, as if she were faint.
"Take off your cloak," said Madame, "and Jacques will tell Monsieur that
you are here."
Jacques rose, but Mademoiselle stopped him. "No," she said; "I will go
to him, if I may. I have a message for him."
Mademoiselle Elise went up. Raoul opened the door.
"Did you wonder what had become of me?" he stammered. The unexpectedness
of her coming unnerved him. He forgot his planned excuse.
"I thought you were at Rouen," she said mechanically, and without
raising her eyes, "or I should not have come. I have a message for you."
"You are wet," he said. "Give me your cloak, and rest until Madame
Martin has dried it."
He gave the cloak to Julie and closed the door.
The small room was lighted by a single candle. Opposite the door the
wall was covered with books from floor to ceiling. In a corner an open
bureau was strewed with papers. The violin was laid carelessly on an old
harpsichord.
Mademoiselle saw these things as she walked over and stood by the
fireplace. Her dark hair, disordered by the hood of the cloak, hung
loosely over her forehead and heightened the worn expression on her
white face. She drew back her black dress slightly and rested one foot
on the edge of the fender, and watched the steam that rose from the damp
shoe.
Jacques brought up a cup of coffee, with a message that Mademoiselle was
to drink it at once, lest she should catch a cold. She smiled sadly,
took the cup, raised it, touched it with her parched lips, and set it
aside.
Raoul came and stood facing her. Though she did not look up she felt his
gaze upon her and became uneasy, and pressed her clasped hands nervously
together.
"I came to get your address from Jacques," she said. "I thought you were
at Rouen." She paused and caught her breath. "I am going away
to-morrow."
As he listened and watched her, he found himself noticing how like a
little child she seemed.
"Sit down," he said, speaking with effort. "You are not well."
"I have scarcely slept," she answered. "I have been thinking all
night--and all day--." Her bosom heaved. The tears sprang to her eyes.
She covered her face with her hands.
Raoul paled, and trembled from head to foot. He clenched his teeth. His
hand that rested on the edge of the mantel-shelf grasped it as if it
would have crushed it.
"Why did you go away?" she said, with plaintive vehemence. "Why did you
not come to me?"
Then, as if her strength failed her, she sat down.
He knelt beside her. "You have been too kind to me--Elise," he said
unsteadily. "I went away from you because I feared lest I should lose
command of myself; lest I should forget that I was--what I am."
At the sound of his voice pronouncing her name a strange, sudden
happiness shone in her eyes. She looked at him. He read the truth, but
could only believe in his happiness when, the next moment, she was
clasped in his arms.
* * * * *
It was eleven o'clock when Madame Martin knocked at the door.
"I thought you would like to know, Monsieur," she said, "that the rain
has stopped, that it grows late, and that Mademoiselle's cloak is quite
dry."
X.
I subjoin the following extract for the information of those who may be
sufficiently interested:--
"LA LANTERNE (_Journal Conservateur de Rocheville, Jeudi,
5 Février_).--Mariage--M. Berhault, Raoul Joseph Victor, 30 ans, et
Mlle. Lanfrey, Elise Marie, 25 ans."
OLD CHINA.
My china makes my old room bright--
On table, shelf and chiffonnier,
Sèvres, Oriental, blue and white,
Leeds, Worcester, Derby--all are here.
The Stafford figures, quaint and grim,
The Chelsea shepherdesses, each
Has its own tale--in twilight dim
My heart can hear their old-world speech.
That vase came with a soldier's "loot,"
From Eastern cities over seas,
That dish held golden globes of fruit,
When oranges were rarities.
That tea-cup touched two lovers' hands,
When Lady Betty poured the tea;
That jar came from far Mongol lands
To hold Dorinda's pot-pourri.
That flask of musk, still faintly smelling,
On Mistress Coquette's toilet lay;
And there's a tale, too long for telling,
Connected with that snuffer-tray.
What vows that patch-box has heard spoken!
That bowl was deemed a prize to win,
Till the dark day when it got broken,
And someone put these rivets in.
My china breathes of days, not hours,
Of patches, powder, belle and beau,
Of sun-dials, secrets, yew-tree bowers,
And the romance of long ago.
It tells old stories--verse and prose--
Which no one now has wit to write,
The sweet, sad tales that no one knows,
The deathless charm of dead delight.