"What are they doing now?" Mrs. Tate asked, turning her eyes to the
ring. "I suppose that rope they're letting down is for her to climb up
on, and that's the net she'll fall into. How gracefully that trapeze
swings! I feel quite excited. Every one else is too. Can't you see it in
their faces? There must be thousands of people here. How strange they
look! Such coarse faces."
"It's the great British middle class. This is just the kind of thing
they like."
"It reminds me of pictures of the Colosseum. I can almost fancy their
turning their thumbs down. Here she comes. How light she is on her feet!
And isn't she pretty! But she looks awfully thin and delicate, and she's
as pale as a ghost."
"You'll attract all the people round us. Of course she's pale. She's
probably powdered up to the eyes, like the women we used to see in
Paris."
"How lightly she goes up that rope," Mrs. Tate whispered, "and what
wonderful arms she has! Just like a man's. They look as if they didn't
belong to her body."
Silently and dexterously Blanche reached the main trapeze, and for a
moment she sat there, with her arms crooked against the rope on either
side, and rubbing her hands. For the first time during her career she
was terrified in the ring. She had hoped that as soon as she resumed her
work the terror she had felt since Jeanne's birth would pass away. Now,
however, it made her so weak that she feared she was going to fall.
She was thinking of the child as she had seen her crowing in the crib.
If anything should happen to her she might never see Jeanne again. She
was vaguely conscious of the vast mass of people below her, waiting for
her to move. She took a long breath and nerved herself for the start,
before making her spring to the trapeze below; she must have courage for
the sake of the little Jeanne, she said to herself. Mechanically she
began to sway forward and backward; then she shot into the air, and with
a sensation of surprise and delight she continued her performance.
Mrs. Tate watched her with an expression of mingled fear, interest, and
pleasure in her face.
"Isn't she the most wonderful creature you ever saw, Percy?" she cried,
clutching her husband's arm. "It's horrible, yet I can't help looking.
Suppose she should fall!"
"She'd merely drop into the net. There's nothing very dangerous about
what she's doing now. Keep still."
"I never saw anything more graceful. She _is_ grace itself, isn't she?
See how her hair flies; I should think it would get into her eyes and
blind her. I shall speak to her about that when I see her. I shall
certainly _go_ to see her."
In a round of applause, Blanche finished her performance on the trapeze
and then began her posing on the rope, whirling slowly, with a rhythmic
succession of motions to the net. Then Jules, in evening dress, with a
large diamond gleaming in his shirt-front, stepped out on the net, and
for an instant they conferred together. Suddenly she clapped her hands,
bounded on the rope again, and while Jules held it to steady her motion,
she climbed hand over hand to the top of the building. There she sat,
looking in the distance like a white bird ready to take flight, her dark
hair streaming around her head.
"I feel as if I were going to faint," Mrs. Tate whispered.
Her husband glanced at her quickly. "Yes, you'd better--in this crowd. A
fine panic you'd create! Want to go out?"
She seemed to pull herself together. "No, I think I shall be able to
bear it. If I can't, I'll look away. What's that he's saying? What
horrible English he speaks! I can't understand a word. _Oh!_" she
gasped, clutching her husband by one arm and holding him firmly as
Blanche dropped backward and whirled through the air; and this
exclamation she repeated in a tone of horrified relief when the girl
struck the net, bounded into the air again, and landed on her feet.
They rose with the applauding crowd and started to leave the place. "In
my opinion," said Mrs. Tate, clinging to her husband's arm and drawing
her wrap closely around her, "in my opinion such exhibitions are
outrageous. There ought to be a law against them. Think of that poor
little creature going through that every night. Of course she'll be
killed sometime. I wonder if she's afraid. I should think she'd expect
every night to be her last."
"What nonsense you're talking. Of course those people don't feel like
that. If they did they'd never go into the business. It's second nature
to them."
"But they're _human_ just like the rest of us, and that woman is a
mother," Mrs. Tate insisted. "Don't you suppose she thinks of her baby
before she makes that terrible dive? It's a shame that her husband
should allow her to do it."
"There you are, trying to regulate the affairs of the world again. Why
don't you let people alone? They'd be a good deal happier, and so would
you. Her husband probably likes to have her do it."
"Well, I shall go to see her anyway," Mrs. Tate cried with
determination. "Then I can find out all about her for myself."
For the next three weeks Mrs. Tate was absorbed by various duties in
connection with her charitable societies. One morning, however, she
suddenly realized that she had neglected to comply with Father Dumeny's
request, and she resolved to put off her other engagements for the
afternoon and call at once on the acrobat; if she didn't go then, there
was no knowing when she could go. At four o'clock she found herself
stepping into a hansom in front of her house in Cavendish Square.
The address that Father Dumeny had sent led her to a little French hotel
with a narrow, dark entrance, dimly lighted by an odorous lamp. She
poked about in the place for a moment, wondering how she was to find any
one; then a door which she had not observed was thrown open, and she was
confronted by a little man with a very waxed moustache, who smiled and
asked in broken English what Madame wanted. She stammered that she was
looking for Madame Le Baron, and the little man at once called a
_garcon_ in a greasy apron, who led the way up the narrow stairs. When
they had reached the second landing the boy rapped on the door, and Mrs.
Tate stood panting behind him. For several moments there was no answer;
then heavy steps could be heard approaching, and a moment later
Madeleine's broad figure, silhouetted by the light from the windows from
behind, stood before them. Mrs. Tate saw at a glance that she was
French, and addressed her in her own language.
"_Mais oui_," Madeleine replied. "Madame is at home. Will Madame have
the goodness to enter?"
"Say that I'm Father Dumeny's friend, please," said Mrs. Tate as she
gave Madeleine a card. Then she glanced at one corner of the room, where
a large cradle, covered with a lace canopy, had caught her eye. "Is the
baby here?" she asked quickly, going toward it.
"Ah, no--not now. She sometimes sleeps here in the morning; but she is
with her mother in the other room now."
Madeleine disappeared, and Mrs. Tate's eyes roved around the room. She
recognized it at once as the typical English lodging-house drawing-room;
she had seen many rooms just like it before, when she had called on
American friends living for a time in London. It was large and oblong,
facing the tall houses on the opposite side of the street that cut off
much of the light; the wall paper was ugly and sombre, and the carpet,
with its large flowery pattern, together with the lounge and chairs,
completed an effect of utter dreariness.
Mrs. Tate wondered how people could live in such places; she should
simply go mad if she had to stay in a room like this. Then she wondered
why Madame Le Baron hadn't brightened up the apartment a bit; the
photographs on the mantel, in front of the large French mirror, together
with the cradle in the corner, were the only signs it gave of being
really inhabited. How vulgar those prints on the wall were! They and the
mirror were the only French touches visible, and they contrasted oddly
with their surroundings. While Mrs. Tate was comfortably meditating on
the vast superiority of England to France, the door leading to the next
room opened and Blanche entered the room. She looked so domestic in her
simple dress of blue serge that for an instant her caller did not
recognize her.
She held out her hand timidly. "Father Dumeny has spoken to me about
you," she said.
"Father Dumeny must think I am an extremely rude person. I meant to come
weeks ago," Mrs. Tate replied, clasping the hand and looking down
steadily into the pale face. "But I've been busy--so busy, I've had
hardly a minute to myself. However, I did go to see you perform."
"Ah, at the Hippodrome?"
"Yes, the very first night. Mr. Tate and I went together. We were
both--er--wonderfully impressed. I don't think I ever saw anything more
wonderful in my life than that plunge of yours."
Mrs. Tate adjusted herself in the chair near the window, and Blanche
took the opposite seat. "I'm glad you liked it," she said with a sigh.
"Liked it. I can't really say I did like it. I must confess it rather
horrified me."
"It does some people. My mother never likes to see me do it--though I've
done it for a great many years now."
"But doesn't it--doesn't it make you nervous sometimes?"
"I never used to think of it--before my baby was born."
"Ah, the baby! May I see her? Just a peep."
"She was asleep when I left," Blanche replied, unconsciously lowering
her voice as if the child in the next room might know she was being
talked about; "but she will wake up soon. She always wakes about this
time. Madeleine is with her now, and she'll dress her and bring her in."
For a quarter of an hour they talked about the little Jeanne, and
Blanche, inspired by Mrs. Tate's vivid interest and sympathy, grew
animated in describing the baby's qualities; when she was born she
weighed nearly nine pounds, and she had not been sick a day. Then she
had grown so! You could hardly believe it was the same child. She very
rarely cried,--almost never at night. Mrs. Tate had heard mothers talk
like that before, but Blanche's _naivete_ lent a new charm to the
narration; she kept in mind, however, their first topic, and at the next
opportunity she returned to it.
"Then what do you do with the child at night?" she asked. "I suppose
your servant goes to the circus with you, doesn't she? Of course you
can't leave the baby alone."
"Ah, no," Blanche replied. "We have a little girl to stay with her."
Mrs. Tate was surprised. So these circus people lived as other people
did, with servants to wait on them, with a nurse for the child. She had
instinctively thought of them as vagabonds. On discovering that they
were well cared for, she had a sensation very like disappointment; they
seemed to be in no need of help of any sort. She was curious to know
more of the life of this girl, who seemed so _naive_ and had such a
curious look of sadness in her eyes. Mrs. Tate deftly led Blanche to
talk about her husband, and in a few minutes, by her questions and her
quick intelligence, she fancied that she understood the condition of
this extraordinary _menage_.
Percy had been right; the wife supported the family and the husband was
a mere hanger-on; but it was evident from the way he was mentioned that
the romance still lasted. Then Blanche made a reference to Jules which
led her visitor to make inquiries with regard to him, and these changed
her view of the situation. So, before marriage, Monsieur had been in
business, and he had probably given it up to follow his wife in her
wanderings. She surmised that they were not absolutely dependent on the
circus for their daily bread; perhaps this accounted for their
comfortable way of living.
While apparently absorbed in conversation Mrs. Tate continued this train
of thought. She had never known any one connected with the circus
before, she explained with a smile; people who lived in London all the
time were apt to be so very narrow and ignorant; but she wanted to hear
all about it, and Madame must tell her. Blanche was able to tell very
little, for she was not used to discussing her work. By adroit
questioning, however, Mrs. Tate led her on to an account of her early
career from her first appearance as a child with her father to her
development into a "star" performer.
The narrative seemed to her wildly interesting. How fascinating it would
be if she could persuade the girl to relate her story in a drawing-room!
It would be the sensation of the winter. But this poor child never could
talk in public, even in her own tongue.
"But do tell me," said Mrs. Tate, when Blanche had described the months
her father had spent in teaching her to make the great plunge. "Doesn't
it hurt your back? I should think that striking with full force day
after day on that padded net would destroy the nervous system of a
giant."
Blanche smiled and shook her head. "It never used to hurt. I've only
felt it lately, since the baby was born," she said.
"Then it does hurt now?" Mrs. Tate cried eagerly.
"Sometimes. I feel so tired in the morning now. I never used to; and
sometimes when I wake up my back aches very much. But I try not to think
of it."
"But, my dear child, you ought to think of it. You mustn't allow
yourself to be injured--perhaps for life."
Blanche turned pale. "Do you think it can be serious?" she asked
timidly.
Mrs. Tate saw that she had made a false step. "Of course not--not
_serious_. It's probably nothing at all. I haven't a doubt a physician
could stop it easily. Have you spoken to any one about it?"
"No; not even to my husband. I shouldn't like to tell him. It would make
him unhappy."
Mrs. Tate became thoughtful. "I wonder if Dr. Broughton couldn't do
something for you. He's our physician, and he's the kindest soul in the
world. I'm always sending him to people. Suppose I should ask him to
come and call on you some day. Perhaps he'll tell you there's nothing
the matter, and then you won't be worried any more." She glanced into
the pale face and was startled by the look she saw there. "Oh, you
needn't be afraid," she laughed. "He won't hurt you. But, of course, if
you don't want him to come, I won't send him."
Blanche clasped her hands and dropped her eyes. "I think I should like
to have him come if--if--my husband----"
"But he needn't know anything about it," said Mrs. Tate, with feminine
delight at the prospect of secrecy. "We won't tell him anything. If he
meets Monsieur Le Baron here you can just say I sent him to call on you.
Besides, he can come some time when your husband isn't here," she added
with a smile.
"Jules generally goes out in the afternoon," Blanche replied, feeling
guilty at the thought of concealing anything from him. "He likes to read
the French papers in a _cafe_ in the Strand."
"Then I'll tell Dr. Broughton to come some afternoon. He'll be
delighted. I don't believe _he's_ ever known an acrobat either," she
laughed.
They talked more of Blanche's symptoms, and Mrs. Tate speedily
discovered that since the birth of the baby Blanche had not been free
from terror of her work; every night she feared might be her last. She
did not confess this directly, but Mrs. Tate gathered it from several
intimations and from her own observations. She felt elated. What an
interesting case! She had never heard of anything like it before. This
poor child was haunted with a horrible terror! This accounted for the
pitiful look of distress in her eyes. Then Mrs. Tate's generous heart
fairly yearned with sympathy; but this she was careful to conceal. She
saw that by displaying it she would do far more harm than good; so she
pretended to be amused at the possibility of Blanche's injuring herself
in making the plunge.
"It must have become second nature to you," she said, "after all these
years. You're probably a little tired and nervous. Dr. Broughton will
give you a tonic that will restore your old confidence. Meantime," she
added enthusiastically, "I'm going to take care of you. I'm coming to
see you very often, and I shall expect you to come to see me. Let me
think; this is Thursday. On Sunday night you and Monsieur Le Baron must
come and dine with us at seven o'clock. We'll be all alone. I sha'n't
ask any one. But wait a minute. Why wouldn't that be a good way for your
husband to meet Dr. Broughton? I'll ask him to come, too. He often looks
in on Sundays. That will be delightful."
She rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. "I suppose I must go
without seeing the baby. But I shall----" She looked quickly around at
the clicking sound that seemed to come from the door. Then the door
opened, and Jules, in a heavy fur-trimmed coat and silk hat, stood
before her. She recognized him at once, and as he bowed hesitatingly,
she extended her hand and relieved the awkwardness of the situation. "I
won't wait for Madame to introduce me," she said, just as Blanche was
murmuring her name.
"Then you are the lady Father Dumeny spoke to us about!" Jules said with
a smile.
"Yes; and your wife and I have become the best of friends already."
"And you've made friends with the baby too, I hope," Jules replied,
removing his coat and throwing it over a chair. She liked his face more
than she had done at the Hippodrome; he had a good eye, and, for a
Frenchman, a remarkably clear complexion.
"No; she's asleep," Blanche replied. "I asked Madeleine to bring her in
if she woke up."
"But you must see her," Jules insisted. "I'll go and take a peep at
her."
He went to the door leading to the next room, opened it softly, and
glanced in. Then he made a sign that the others were to follow, and he
tiptoed toward the bed where Jeanne lay sleeping, her face rosy with
health, and her little hands tightly closed. Madeleine, who had been
sitting beside the bed, rose as they approached and showed her mouthful
of teeth.
For a few moments they stood around the child, smiling at one another
and without speaking. Then they tiptoed out of the room, and closed the
door behind them.
"I shall come again soon some morning," Mrs. Tate whispered, as if still
afraid of disturbing the child, "when the baby's awake." Then she went
on in a louder tone: "She's a dear. I know I shall become very fond of
her. And you're coming to us next Sunday night," she added, as she bade
Jules good-bye. "Your wife has promised. I shall expect you both.
Perhaps I shall come before then; I want to get acquainted with Jeanne."
She kissed Blanche on both cheeks, after the French fashion. "I sha'n't
forget, you know. We have great secrets together already," she laughed,
turning to Jules as she passed out of the door.