Durand made a bold entrance, and Jules followed sheepishly. The room was
small and uncarpeted; on one side stood a wardrobe and a table, and on
the opposite wall hung a large mirror that reflected nearly the whole of
the apartment. The rest of the furniture consisted of two wooden chairs
and a large trunk. Jules did not realize that he had observed these
details till afterward, for his glance was bent on the face of
Mademoiselle Blanche, who stood beside the trunk, surveying her callers
with apprehension in her big eyes. On one of the chairs sat a woman of
fifty, tall and thin, with strands of flesh hanging at her neck, her
eyes bright, her lips aglow with a false bloom, and her cheeks pallid
with powder. Jules recognized her at once as the acrobat's mother, and
he had a shock of surprise and revulsion.
The manager, after presenting the callers to Madame Perrault, and then
to her daughter, excused himself with a flourish, and left the room.
Madame Perrault was smiling and chattering at Durand, and Mademoiselle
Blanche was flushed and confused.
"I think we must be the first of the Parisian journalists to interview
Mademoiselle," said Durand to the mother, letting his eyes turn vaguely
to the acrobat for information.
Madame Perrault gave a little jump, and glanced hastily at her
daughter's face.
"Yes, you are," she replied. "We did have--that is, there was a
gentleman of the press who wanted to interview Blanche, but she--she was
a little timid about it. Blanche is very timid; so we--we put it off.
But interviewers are very----Ah, you will sit down, will you not?" she
said to Jules, who had remained standing with his eyes fixed on the
girl.
Mademoiselle Blanche had taken a seat on the trunk, and her mother sat
beside her so that Jules might occupy her chair. When they were all
adjusted, Madame Perrault resumed, turning to Jules, whose embarrassment
she had observed.
"Monsieur Reju told me yesterday interviews were so important. They make
people interested. They----"
"But the people are already interested in Mademoiselle Blanche," Durand
interposed, gallantly. "That's why my _confrere_ and I have come here.
The Parisians want to know all about Mademoiselle. She's the sensation
of the hour. Her name is on everybody's lips."
He glanced at Mademoiselle Blanche with his most languishing smile, and
Jules felt a sudden desire to kick him. The acrobat tried to look
pleased, but she succeeded only in appearing more confused. Jules was
surprised to see how frail she was. Her figure, full and vigorous in the
ring, seemed so thin in her plain, tight-fitting gray dress, that he
felt sure she must have been padded for her performance.
"I'm going to ask Mademoiselle a great many questions," Durand resumed,
still leering at the acrobat.
"But I have nothing to tell," she replied, speaking for the first time.
"But you must have been born, and grown up, and done a great many things
besides, that the rest of us don't do," the journalist laughed, growing
more familiar. Jules' dislike for him was rapidly developing into
hatred.
Durand's familiarity, however, seemed to please the acrobat's mother.
"Blanche is too modest," she said. "She's had a great many things happen
to her."
"Have you always been in the circus, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes, ever since she was a child," her mother answered. "Her father was
an acrobat."
"So it's in the family. And were you in the circus too, Madame?"
Madame Perrault shook her head, and Jules thought he saw her blush under
the powder. "No, I have never been in public life. My husband's family
lived in Boulogne, where I lived too. They were all acrobats. After my
marriage I used to travel with the circus, and when Blanche was born,
Monsieur Perrault wanted her to perform, too. When she was only five
years old, they used to appear together."
"Then you have travelled a great deal, Mademoiselle?" Durand turned his
fascinating glance on the girl. She looked at her mother, and as she was
about to reply, Madame Perrault resumed: "Ah, my daughter has been over
nearly the whole world,--in England, in Germany, in Russia--"
"Have you ever been in America?" Jules asked quickly.
The acrobat shook her head.
"But she has had such offers--such splendid--such magnificent offers to
go there," the mother cried, clasping her hands.
"But I'm afraid," the girl murmured, glancing at Jules with her big
timid eyes.
"Afraid of the voyage?" Jules asked. Her eyes were still fixed upon him,
and he felt as if every nerve in his body were vibrating. "That's
nothing. I have made it twice, and I wasn't sick a day."
This was not true, for on each trip Jules had been sick for several
days; but he made the remark with such ease, that for the moment he felt
convinced himself of its truth. Mademoiselle Blanche looked at him
admiringly, and he saw that he had made an impression on the mother,
too, established himself in her regard as a travelled person, a man of
importance.
"Then Monsieur has been in America?" said Madame Perrault.
"Oh, yes," Jules replied, carelessly. "All over it. It's a wonderful
country."
Mademoiselle Blanche sighed, and her mother glanced at her wistfully.
"But it's too far," Madame resumed with a shake of the head. "We could
not go so far from the children."
"Then you have other children?" said the journalist. "Are they in the
circus, too?"
For the first time, the girl's face brightened. "Oh, no!" she replied,
with a suggestion of horror in her tone.
"They are very young," the mother explained. "Jeanne is only fourteen
and Louise will be eleven next month. They are with my sister in
Boulogne."
Durand made a little sign of impatience which indicated to Jules that he
was not getting the information he wanted. Besides, he was evidently
displeased by the failure of his leers to produce any apparent effect
upon the girl; she seemed to be unconscious of them.
"And Monsieur Perrault," he said, "he is still performing?"
An expression of pain appeared in the mother's face, and Mademoiselle
dropped her eyes.
"No, he died three years ago," Madame Perrault replied. "He was killed
at Monte Carlo. He fell from the trapeze."
There was silence for a moment, and the journalist tried to infuse into
his insipid little face a look of sympathy. Just how much sympathy he
felt was shown by his next remark.
"I couldn't help wondering last night," he said briskly, "when I saw
Mademoiselle perform, how she felt just before she took that plunge. How
do you feel, Mademoiselle? Aren't you frightened, just a little?"
The girl shook her head. "I have done it for so many years, I don't
think of being afraid. My father taught me never to have the least fear.
He wouldn't have been killed if the trapeze hadn't broken."
"And we take every precaution," Madame Perrault quickly explained.
Durand began to ask questions about the various cities Mademoiselle had
visited. Most of the replies came from Madame Perrault, who seemed to
have constituted herself her daughter's mouthpiece. Which audiences did
she like best to play to? The Germans! Durand shook his head. He
wouldn't dare to say that in a French paper. It might make Mademoiselle
unpopular with the Parisians. Ah, but Mademoiselle liked the Parisians,
too. Didn't she find them very enthusiastic? No? That was simply because
they were thrilled, overcome, silenced by her performance. Durand grew
excited in extolling the merits of Parisian audiences. For their
favorites they would do anything, and Mademoiselle was fast becoming one
of the most popular of their favorites. Of course they had their
peculiarities. When a performer vexed them, there were no limits to
their wrath. Had Mademoiselle heard of the attack on Sophie Lenoir at
the _Ambassadeurs_? The audience had thrown at her everything they could
lay hands on, and she had fainted, or pretended to faint, on the stage.
Indeed, much of the conversation was supplied by the journalist himself.
He had apparently abandoned hope of making the acrobat talk; so he
addressed most of his speeches to the mother, whom he drew out by many
artful devices. Mademoiselle Blanche sat looking on in open-eyed
surprise, as if she did not have a share in the matters under
discussion. Occasionally she would glance appealingly at Jules; when he
looked back, she would blush and turn her head away.
While Durand was in the middle of one of his stories, Madame Perrault
drew a small gold watch from her pocket. The journalist jumped from his
chair.
"We are keeping Mademoiselle from dressing," he said, as Jules rose,
too. "A thousand pardons. We will go in just a moment. There's only one
more question. That is about your presents, Mademoiselle, your gifts."
"My gifts?" the acrobat repeated vaguely.
"Yes, from the princes, the crowned heads you've appeared before."
"Ah!" the mother exclaimed, in a long breath, "Blanche has received so
many! There was the brooch from the Emperor of Russia, and the ring from
the Prince of Roumania, a costly diamond, monsieur, so clear and
beautiful, and the little gold watch studded with pearls from the King
of Bavaria, the 'mad King' they call him, you know--and then--then the
bracelet set with rubies from the Duchess of Merlino, when Blanche was
in Bucharest. Ah, but we have none of these here. They are all at home,
they--"
"Here in Paris?" Durand asked, impatiently.
"No, monsieur, in Boulogne," Madame Perrault answered, and Jules saw an
expression of wonder and pain cross her daughter's face.
Durand was rubbing his silk hat with his glove, and regarding it
intently.
"Then," he said, looking up quickly, "there must have been some
adventures--some admirers, that have followed Mademoiselle, perhaps,
eh?" he added, leering insinuatingly at the mother.
Madame smiled, and the face of the acrobat turned pink. Jules wanted to
seize the little journalist by the neck, and throw him out of the door.
"Ah, in Bucharest," cried Madame, "the young--"
"Mamma!"
Madame Perrault shrugged her shoulders, and smiled suggestively.
"Perhaps we'd better not speak of that. Blanche is a good girl," she
added, patting her daughter on the back. "She's good to her mother, and
she's good to her sisters. Ah, _ma chere_!"
The girl had turned her head away. Durand offered her his hand
gallantly, and then beamed on the mother. "I will come and see you some
time, if you will give me permission," he said condescendingly.
"Some Sunday," Madame Perrault replied. "It's the only day when Blanche
is free. And you will bring your friend, perhaps, if he is still in
Paris," she added amiably, with a quick glance and smile at the
journalist from Marseilles. Then she produced two cards and passed them
to the callers.
Jules murmured a civil response to the invitation, and, after bowing low
to the ladies, he followed Durand and closed the door behind him. The
expression of languishing pleasure in the journalist's face had given
place to a look of hilarious merriment.
"Did you ever see such a block? She didn't have a word to say. I don't
believe she has an idea. And she thought she was impressing me with her
modesty! And the gifts from the crowned heads--wasn't that droll? Of
course, the old lady made up every one of those stories. She's a sharp
one, with her painted lips and her powdered cheeks. Her little game is
to get a rich husband for the girl, and I'll wager a week's salary
she'll succeed."
Jules said nothing. He knew it would be useless to argue with Durand. If
he were to give his opinion of Mademoiselle Blanche, the journalist
would laugh, and say he didn't understand women, especially actresses.
So, when Durand suddenly asked him what he thought of the girl, he
merely shrugged his shoulders.
As they passed out they met Reju, who offered them seats if they cared
to remain for the rest of the performance. Durand explained that he must
return at once to the office, and urged Jules to accept the invitation.
When Jules found himself alone in the first row of the orchestra he
breathed with relief. He had never before realized what an odious little
creature Durand was. For the moment he forgot even to feel gratitude for
the introduction to the acrobat.
He was unable to take an interest in the performance, and he looked at
his watch to see how long he would have to wait for the appearance of
Mademoiselle Blanche. It was just twenty minutes past ten. Suddenly it
occurred to him that he would have time to go out and buy some flowers
for her. He left his seat, and hurried to the nearest shop in the
_Boulevard_. There he bought the finest bunch of white roses he could
find, went back to the theatre, and sent them to the acrobat with his
card. When at last Mademoiselle Blanche ran into the arena, he was
thrilled with joy. She wore his flowers in her belt.
V
That night Jules Le Baron knew that for the first time in his life he
was really in love. He had often fancied himself in love before, and he
had enjoyed the experience; now he discovered his mistake. Love was not
the pure delight he had imagined it to be. It is true, he had moments of
ecstasy, of sublime self-congratulation, when he felt with stronger
conviction that the world was made for him and he had been created to
conquer the world; but during the next few days these were followed by
long periods of depression, of abject despair.
At times, too, the grotesqueness of this infatuation appalled him. To be
in love with an acrobat, a woman who earned her bread by hurling herself
from the top of a building, who risked her life every day, sometimes
twice a day, that she might live! Then, at the thought of her amazing
courage, Jules would be overcome, and if alone in his room at home, he
would throw himself on the bed, bury his head in the pillow and groan.
Indeed, at this period he went through many strange and violent
performances. Madeleine became alarmed for his health, and thought of
sending for a doctor.
He could not apply himself to his work; he made so many mistakes in his
English correspondence that Monsieur Mercier had to ask him to be more
careful. The twins noticed his condition and chaffed him, and insisted
on knowing "her name"; in secret they decided that Jules had been
investing his money badly; he had often boasted to them about his little
property. They tried to cheer him by urging him to join them in their
nocturnal expeditions, but he always replied that he was staying at home
in the evening now. As a matter of fact, he spent every night or a
portion of every night at the _Cirque Parisien_, and at each appearance
of Mademoiselle Blanche, he was gratified to see that she wore his
nightly offering of roses in her belt. He never received an
acknowledgment of these tributes, for he did not dare write his address
on the cards he sent with them. Once, as she stood in the net, just
before climbing the rope to make her great plunge, he fancied that his
eye caught hers, and she smiled at him. He decided afterward that he had
been mistaken; but the thought of that smile prevented him from sleeping
half the night.
Jules was keeping his courage alive in the hope of seeing her at her
apartment on Sunday. His only fear was that Durand would be there.
Durand's published interview with Mademoiselle Blanche was so flippant
that it deepened the hatred Jules had already conceived for the
journalist. He resolved on Sunday to explain to Madame Perrault that he
was not what Durand had represented him to be and to appear in his own
character; he was conceited enough to believe that in his own character
he could make quite as good an impression as in any other. Besides, had
not Mademoiselle Blanche been impressed by the fact that he had visited
America?
On Saturday night he sent his silk hat to be blocked, and his frock-coat
to be pressed, and he bought a pair of white gloves. Madeleine found him
much more agreeable on Sunday morning than he had been during the week;
but, though he seemed to be recovering his spirits, she still felt
worried. In the afternoon he presented himself before her for
inspection, asked if his coat set well, if she liked the colour of his
gloves, what she thought of the violets that he wore. She became
enraptured over his appearance, told him that he had never looked so
beautiful, and saw him go away with a radiant face. Then, as the door
closed behind him, she went into her little chamber and wept. The truth
had flashed upon her! Her Jules was in love! Some one else was going to
take his mother's place and hers. She felt all the jealousy and misery
that his own mother might have felt at the moment, combined with a
pathetic consciousness that she had no right to grieve. Jules was
everything in the world to her, she said to herself, and she was nothing
to him. She was an old broken woman, and for the rest of her days she
should have to live alone.
Jules had become her pride and the source of her happiness. Yet she
really saw very little of him--the only meal he took at home was his
breakfast--but she really existed for the pleasure of serving him and
looking at his face in the morning. Now, in spite of her misery, she
knelt before the statue of the Blessed Virgin that stood on a little
table beside her bed, and prayed that the woman who was going to take
her place might be a good woman, and worthy of her boy. In her simple
affection for Jules she believed that he had only to show that he cared
for a woman to have her throw herself into his arms.
It was hardly three o'clock, too early for a call, Jules thought, as he
walked toward the _rue St. Honore_; but he was so impatient to see
Mademoiselle Blanche again that he could not wait till later in the
afternoon. During the week the sun had hardly appeared, and the
succession of leaden skies had helped to depress his spirits. To-day,
however, the sky was blue and the sun shone so brightly that it seemed
almost like spring. He was in one of his buoyant moods, when he felt
sure of his ability to conquer. In his fine clothes and with his
confident manner, he looked very handsome; several pretty girls
gratified him by staring at him as he passed. If he impressed people he
didn't know, why couldn't he impress Mademoiselle Blanche? He planned a
great many things to say to her. He would be particularly amiable to the
mother, too, and tell her all about America.
The number in the _rue St. Honore_ that Madame Perrault had given
corresponded with one of the great white stucco apartment houses
abounding in Paris. He passed under the wide vaulted entrance, and asked
the wife of the _concierge_ if Madame Perrault lived there. "_Au
sixieme_," was the shrill reply, and he started up the narrow stairs.
When he reached the _sixieme_, the top floor of the house, he panted and
waited for a moment before ringing, to catch his breath. Then he
carefully arranged his cuffs, touched with his gloved hand his silk
cravat and his flowers and, with a sigh of anticipation, he rang the
bell.
A trim little servant of not more than fifteen opened the door. When
Jules asked for Madame Perrault, she shook her head.
"She went out an hour ago, monsieur, and she won't be back till four."
Jules' heart sank. Of course, mother and daughter were out together. He
was about to turn away despairingly, but he suddenly thought of
inquiring if Mademoiselle were at home. The maid nodded.
"Shall I say that monsieur wishes to see her?" she asked, stepping back
that he might enter.
"If you please," he replied, as he followed the girl into the little
_salon_. It was furnished wholly in Japanese fashion; the walls were
hung with Japanese draperies, and a large thick rug covered the floor.
On the mantel, prettily draped with a wide piece of flowered silk, stood
a number of photographs, one of them a duplicate of the portrait of
Mademoiselle Blanche that he had seen in the entrance of the Circus. As
Jules glanced at this, he heard a light step in the adjoining room, and
when he turned, Mademoiselle Blanche herself was looking at him out of
her dark eyes. She walked toward him, flushing a little, and extended
her hand.
"I am sorry mamma is not here," she said. "She went out only a few
minutes ago, and she'll be back soon. But we--"
"You didn't expect any one so early. I ought to apologize, but I was
impatient to come. Then--I--I hoped to find you alone."
"So you have," she laughed, pointing to a chair near the grate-fire. She
wore a dress of dark silk with little white spots in it that became her
wonderfully, Jules thought. Around her neck was a piece of muslin, open
at the throat, and muslin encircled her wrists. Once again Jules was
impressed by the delicacy of her appearance; her skin had an almost
transparent whiteness, and there was no colour in her cheeks, save when
she flushed, which she did at the least cause.
"How pleasantly you are lodged here," said Jules, looking around the
room. The apartment was as small as his own, which he had considered one
of the smallest in Paris.
"Yes, we were fortunate to get it. And it seems so odd--it belongs to an
actress who's spending the winter in the South of France. We have taken
it furnished."
"Then you're to be here all the winter?" said Jules, feasting his eyes
on the clear white forehead, the white neck that he could see beneath
the muslin. How beautiful she was! His surmise about the teeth had been
correct; they were small and white, with little bits of red between
them.
"No," she replied, "I've been engaged at the _Cirque_ until the first of
January. Then I shall go to Vienna, and appear there for several
months."
"Ah!" For a moment Jules was silent. "But you will take a rest before
you go to Vienna?"
She shook her head.
"No. I should like to go home for Christmas to be with my sisters. But
they will come to Paris instead."
"But doesn't it tire you?"
"No. It isn't hard. And I never like to stop. I must keep in practice."
For an instant Jules was touched by a curious sympathy. There certainly
was something pathetic, even abnormal, in the thought that this frail
woman hurled herself six days in the week from the top of a building.
Then he was thrilled again by the marvel of it, by the consciousness
that he was sitting opposite the phenomenon, gazing into her eyes,
hearing her voice, receiving her smiles. He could think of nothing to
say, but he felt quite happy; he would have liked to sit there for hours
in mute admiration. Mademoiselle Blanche, however, looked confused; she
seemed to be shaping something in her mind.
"It was very kind of you to send the flowers," she said at last. "I
would have thanked you before if I had known where you lived. They were
very lovely."
His face shone with pleasure at the thought that she had recognized him
as the sender, and he leaned toward her. "You needn't thank me," he
said. "I felt repaid when I saw them in your belt."
Then he told her how he had gone to the circus every night just to see
her; how he admired her performance, her grace and skill on the trapeze,
her courage in making the great plunge. As he spoke, her face kept
changing colour. She seemed to him like a bashful child, and he
marvelled at her ingenuousness, for surely she must be used to praise.
Then he recalled what Durand had said about her affectation of modesty,
and he wondered if the journalist could have been right; but when he
looked into the girl's clear eyes he saw nothing but beauty and truth.
When he had finished speaking of her performance, he began to talk about
himself, his favourite topic with women. He told her about his visit in
the United States, and he made fun of the Americans for drinking water
instead of wine at table, and for many other customs that had amused him
because they were so unlike the ways of Parisians. He also imitated the
speech of some of the Americans he had known, and he was surprised to
find that she understood what he said. She had learned English from her
father, she explained; he had often performed in London, and she had
been there with him twice. Then he began to speak with her in English to
display his accomplishment, and he felt disappointed on discovering that
she could converse quite as fluently, and with a better accent. So he
returned to French, and told her about his life in Paris, his dear old
Madeleine who kept him so comfortable in his little apartment, his work
at the office, and about Dufresne and Leroux. She showed no surprise
when he revealed Durand's duplicity; she merely said that she hadn't
liked the journalist, and her mother had been vexed by the article. She
seemed so interested that he went back to his early days, before the
death of his father and mother, described his life at the _lycee_, his
love of sport, his passion for the circus, his boyish adventures at
Montmartre, his happy days in summer at Compiegne, his mother's goodness
and her foolish pride in him. He was so unconscious in his egotism that
it was touching to hear him; Mademoiselle Blanche seemed to be
unconscious of it, too, for she listened with a serious, absorbed
attention. While he was in the midst of an analysis of his own
qualities, the little clock on the mantel struck four and Mademoiselle
Blanche looked up quickly.
"Mamma will be here very soon now," she said.
Jules felt a sudden irritation. At that moment the coming of Madame
Perrault seemed like an intrusion. The reference to it had the effect of
stopping his confidences; it was as if she had already appeared in the
room. He rose from his seat, and began to examine the photographs on the
mantel. Then he took up one of them, a large photograph of a man of more
than fifty, with a white pointed beard, a shock of iron-grey hair, and
laughing eyes.
"Is this your father, mademoiselle?"
She shook her head.
"That is my mother's _fiance_."