By the month of November, Jules had identified himself with Madame
Perrault and her daughter. He took his position as their friend and
recognized escort so quickly and so quietly that he was himself
surprised by it. There were moments when he had a fear that it was all
an illusion, that some night he should find the stage-door of the
_Cirque_ slammed in his face.
It was while watching Mademoiselle Blanche in the ring that he found it
most difficult to realize his happiness. He actually _knew_ this
wonderful creature in white tights who darted from trapeze to trapeze,
who posed like a marble statue on the rope, who shot through the air
like a thunderbolt! He saw her every day; he loved her, and she knew
that he loved her. Sometimes he fancied that she loved him in
return--from an expression in her face, a glance of her eyes, a blush, a
tremor when his hand touched hers. He did not dare speak to her about
his love; he doubted if he should ever dare to speak; at a word he
feared his happiness might be shattered.
Sometimes on Sunday afternoons he drove with Mademoiselle Blanche and
her mother into the country, and on Sunday nights he would dine and pass
the evening with them in the little apartment. Occasionally he had long
talks with the mother; in these he told about his family and about his
property, laying stress on the fact that even if he lost his place at
the office his income was large enough to support him. She told him, in
return, about her own family and her husband's, and gave him a humorous
account of her sister-in-law, Blanche's Aunt Sophie.
"Blanche is a little like her," she said. "Sophie takes everything _au
grand serieux_. Then she's strict with the children, and that's a great
mistake, for Jeanne hates restraint, and Louise doesn't need it."
She also told him amusing stories about Monsieur Berthier's devotion to
her. He had offered himself to her while she was at the convent where
she was educated, near Boulogne, and she had refused him twice. Her
family had objected to her marriage with Blanche's father, simply
because he was an acrobat. No, she hadn't fallen in love with him at the
circus. She never saw him perform till a short time before she became
engaged to him. Ah, it had been hard for her to be separated from him so
much. Sometimes she travelled with him in his long journeys; but while
the children were very young, she couldn't. Blanche had been such a
consolation to him. Madame Perrault believed that husband and wife ought
never to be separated; it was bad for both of them. If she had her life
to live over again, she would always travel with her husband, no matter
how far he went.
Most of Jules' talk with Madame Perrault, however, consisted of a
discussion of the qualities of her daughter, whose praises she
constantly sang for him. Blanche's ambition, she said, was to provide
dowries for her sisters; she had already accumulated a few thousand
francs, and these she had set aside for the girls. She never seemed to
think that she herself needed a _dot_. Ah, sometimes Madame was very
much worried about her daughter's future. Blanche could not marry any of
the other performers; they were not worthy of her, and their coarseness
and roughness shocked her. Of course, they were good enough in their
way, but their way was not Blanche's way.
Then, as Madame became more familiar with Jules, she also grew more
confidential. Yes, Blanche had had a great many admirers. The young
Prince of Luperto had fallen desperately in love with her in Bucharest
three years before, and he had followed her all over Europe. But she had
refused to notice any of his letters,--and oh, _mon Dieu!_ such letters!
Madame had read every one of them, and she had met the Prince the night
he tried to force himself into Blanche's dressing-room. He seemed _such_
a gentleman, and he had the most beautiful eyes! But Blanche,--she was
so frightened. She cried and cried, and for weeks she was in terror of
her life! Then there were others,--so many, so many. One by one, Madame
Perrault unfolded their histories to Jules, and he listened in rapt
attention, with a growing appreciation of the daughter's charms and of
the mother's amiability.
Jules often wondered why he did not hear more talk about the circus in
the little apartment. The subject was rarely mentioned. Mademoiselle
Blanche displayed no nervousness before or after her performance. She
practised a little in the morning at home, she said, to keep her muscles
limber; she had done the same things on the trapeze so often that they
had become easy to her. Once Jules met in the apartment the oily little
Frenchman who always held the rope when Mademoiselle Blanche climbed to
the top of the _Cirque_, and then he learned for the first time that
Monsieur Pelletier was Mademoiselle's agent. "And he is such a trial to
us," the mother explained when he was gone. "He makes such bad terms,
and we have to pay him such a high percentage; and then he sometimes
mixes up our dates, and we don't know what to do. Ah, if we could only
have some one to take care of our affairs that we could trust. It is so
hard for two unprotected women."
Jules thought of this speech many times. Indeed, he fairly brooded over
it. For several weeks he had felt that his career was too limited; he
hated the thought of being tied down to his business all his life. He
was made for something better than that, for a grander, a more
conspicuous _role_.
In his youth he had thought of the army, then of a diplomatic career;
for a time, too, of the stage. But he had been too poor to enter either
of the first two professions, and for the stage he was unfitted by
temperament. Now, in his imagination a brilliant career stretched before
him, combining both glory and love. Up to the present he had not lived;
his life was about to begin. The world seemed to open out to him! He
would travel from one end of the earth to the other in an unbroken march
of triumph. Even Paris lost attractiveness for him and seemed
uninteresting and petty; he pitied the poor _boulevardiers_ who were
bound to a wretched routine of existence, who loved it simply because
they knew of no other. He would not only visit America again--this time
not in a sordid capacity, friendless and lonely, but surrounded by a
retinue--he would go also to Russia, to India, to Australia, perhaps to
Japan and the other countries of the remote East. The night when he was
first enchanted by this vision, he could not sleep for excitement till
nearly four o'clock. Then he saw the vision realized, only to be
shattered by Madeleine's cracked voice, and her injunction that it was
time for him to get up and go to his work.
In the evening, when he saw his friends again, he found them very
unhappy; they had just received news from Jeanne that Aunt Sophie was
very ill, threatened with pneumonia. Madame Perrault was in tears, and
Mademoiselle Blanche's eyes showed that she, too, had been crying. The
next day, they said, Jeanne had promised to write, and the next night
Jules learned that bad news had been received. The doctor pronounced the
case pneumonia, and said the patient was in great danger. Mamma must
come on, Jeanne wrote. But Madame explained to Jules with sobs that she
could not leave Blanche.
"And my poor Jeanne, what will she do, a child of fourteen with only the
little Louise to help her."
Then Jules became inspired. His faithful Madeleine--she would save the
situation. Madame Perrault might go to Boulogne by the first train, and
Madeleine would take her place, would be a second mother to Mademoiselle
Blanche, accompany her to the theatre, help her to dress, come back with
her, keep her from being lonely. Jules wanted to rush off at once, and
bring Madeleine to the _rue St. Honore_, for inspection and approval.
Then the girl's quiet wisdom asserted itself. Jeanne had said there was
no immediate danger; so if Mamma took the train in the morning, that
would be in quite time enough. After their _petit dejeuner_ they might
call on Madeleine, or Monsieur Jules might tell them if she would come.
Then Jules burst into a eulogy of Madeleine's qualities: he had never
before realized what a good soul she was. He would bring her with him,
he said, in the morning, on his way to the office; he knew she would be
glad to come.
On this occasion Jules had a chance to display his executive ability.
After leaving his friends at the Circus, he drove home furiously, found
Madeleine sound asleep in the big chair by the fireplace, woke her up,
and explained the situation.
"Now, my dear Madeleine," he said at the end, "you are to go to that
poor girl and take her mother's place; she will love you, and you will
love her. So be good to her for my sake, Madeleine," and he leaned over,
and patted the old woman's wrinkled hand affectionately. Madeleine was
moved, chiefly, however, by Jules' unwonted tenderness. She had never
known an actress, not to speak of a performer in a circus, and she felt
alarmed at the thought of meeting one. But she felt sure that
Mademoiselle Blanche must be good. Hadn't Jules said so? Jules had not
said that he was in love with Mademoiselle; he trusted Madeleine to find
that out for herself; he also trusted Madeleine to find out a few other
things for him. Secretly he was blessing the chance that enabled him to
send Madeleine to Mademoiselle; for the moment he did not even think of
the personal discomfort it would cause himself.
That night Jules told his friends that Madeleine had consented to come,
and he promised to bring her with him in the morning. Madeleine was
greatly agitated, and rose unusually early to make an elaborate
toilette. She rarely went out, save to the shops and to mass; so she had
not kept up with the fashions, and her best dress was made in a mode
long before discarded. She was a very grotesque figure as she walked in
her queer little bonnet with long ribbons flying from it, and her wide
skirts. When they reached the apartment in the _rue St. Honore_, Jules
thought he saw an expression of amusement in Madame Perrault's face, but
Blanche greeted Madeleine with great kindliness. Then the mother
explained that she had just received a letter from Jeanne, saying Aunt
Sophie was in no immediate danger, but begging her to come as soon as
possible. Jules saw that both his friends were pleased with Madeleine,
and it was quickly arranged that she should install herself in the
apartment that day, and at four o'clock Madame Perrault would leave for
Boulogne. He departed radiantly happy, with the promise to return at
three to take Madame to the station. He secured leave of absence from
the office, and on his return to the apartment he found Madeleine there,
helping Mademoiselle Blanche to make a new dress.
"I'll be ready in a minute," Madame Perrault cried from the adjoining
room.
"Are you coming with us, mademoiselle?" Jules asked.
"No, I won't let her," her mother replied. "It's too cold, and it would
tire her. You aren't afraid to ride alone in a cab with me, are you?"
Jules was surprised by her vivacity; he knew that she was greatly
worried about her sister, yet in the midst of her agitation she could
joke. If he had known her less he would have supposed that she was a
woman of little feeling. She presently flounced out of the room, putting
on her gloves and smiling.
"Madeleine and Blanche have become great friends," she said. "I'm afraid
I shall be jealous of her. When I come back there won't be any place for
me." Then she took her daughter by both hands and Jules saw the glimmer
of tears in her eyes. "Good-bye, dear," she said, kissing the girl on
both cheeks. "You must write to me every day, and I'll write to you. In
a week, at least, I shall be back. I have a presentiment that Sophie
will improve as soon as I get there."
Mademoiselle Blanche clung tightly to her mother, and kissed her again
and again.
"There, there! Now, my child--there!" With a parting embrace, Madame
Perrault tore herself away, crying as she passed out of the door,
"Good-bye, Madeleine. Take care of the little one! And remember Monsieur
Jules is coming back to dinner. I'm going to invite him."
This was the first time she had ever called Jules by his first name, and
on hearing it he felt a thrill of joy. She hurried before him down the
steep stairs, wiping her eyes. When they entered the cab, she had
controlled herself again, and was smiling as usual.
The cab rattled so noisily over the pavement that during most of the
ride to the station they kept silent. They arrived there half an hour
ahead of time, and this they spent in walking up and down the platform.
"You must be very kind to my Blanche while I'm away," said Madame
Perrault. "She will be very lonely. She hasn't been separated from me
before since her father died."
Jules assured her that he would be a second mother to her. He would take
her and Madeleine to the _Cirque_ every night, and in the morning on his
way to the office he would call to ask if he could do her any service.
"She'll be spoiled when you come back," he concluded with a smile.
For a moment they walked without speaking. The station was so cold that
their breaths made vapour in the air. Yet Jules felt warm enough; his
whole being seemed to glow.
"There's something I want to tell you."
She made a sign with her head that she was listening.
"I'm in love with Mademoiselle Blanche," he said, impressively, finding
a delicious relief in speaking the words.
She smiled roguishly into his face.
"Is that all?"
They looked into each other's eyes, and read there a mutual
understanding.
"Then you've known all along?"
"Of course, from the very first, from the first night you came into the
dressing-room, and pretended to be a reporter."
"Ah, I thought you had forgiven that."
"So I have--that is, there was nothing to forgive. You didn't deceive
me."
"Do you mean that you knew at the time I wasn't a reporter? And
Blanche--she knew too?"
"No, poor dear, she didn't know. Yet it was plain as daylight. Ah, my
friend, I haven't lived fifty years for nothing. Don't you suppose I
could tell from your looks and your manner, and what you said, and what
you _didn't_ say,--don't you suppose I could tell from all that, what
you had come for?"
Jules looked into her face again.
"How good you are!" he sighed.
She burst out laughing.
"Good? I am not good. Blanche taught me that years ago. There's nothing
like having a good daughter to take a mother down. She makes me feel
ashamed every day of my life."
"That's just the way she makes me feel," Jules cried, delighted to find
that some one else shared his feeling. "Then she's so gentle and so
kind," he rhapsodized, "and she thinks so little about herself! Do
you--do you think----Oh, that's what almost drives me to despair
sometimes. I hardly dare go near her. I hardly dare to speak to her."
Madame Perrault took a deep breath.
"You almost make me feel young again," she said, with a smile.
"Do you think I could make her love me?" Jules asked, marvelling at his
own humility.
"Do you mean that you want to know whether I think she's in love with
you or not?" Madame Perrault said briskly. "Ah, my friend, I can't
answer that question. You must ask her yourself."
"Then you give me permission to ask her? You are willing? You have no
objection?" He stopped suddenly, and looked radiantly at Madame
Perrault's face. "How _good_ you are, madame!" he repeated.
She began to laugh again,--a peculiar, gurgling laugh that came from her
throat.
"Why should I object? You are a good fellow. You would make Blanche a
good husband. It's time for her to get married. She needs some one to
protect her. I can't follow her about all the rest of my life. She is
twenty-two. Why shouldn't she marry?"
Jules' ardor was cooled by this practical reasoning; it made him
practical too. He told Madame Perrault again of his little property. He
could well afford to marry, he said. He loved Mademoiselle Blanche with
all his heart; he couldn't live without her; he would give up everything
for her; he would follow her everywhere. Ah, if he only knew whether she
cared for him or not! She was so strange, so reserved. It was so hard to
tell with a girl like her.
"You are right there, my friend. She has great reserve. With my Jeanne
or Louise, I should know everything. But with Blanche, _non!_ But I
never pry into her secrets; I have learned better. She has a great deal
of inner life; she thinks a great deal; she is not like the other
flighty women that you see in the circus. If she had not been born to
the circus, if she had been brought up as Louise has been, she would be
a _religieuse_."
Jules would have become rhapsodical again if the whistle of the train
had not sounded, and he was obliged hurriedly to help Madame Perrault
into her compartment. He shook the hand that she offered him, received a
few last messages, and he watched the train as it pulled out of the
station. Then, with a sigh, he turned and walked back to his office.