goldfish."
"Bosh!" said the tanner; "fiddlesticks!"
But this remarkable young person knew her own mind and would not take
"Fiddlesticks" for an answer, and before many minutes had elapsed, she
was escorting l'oncle Auguste to a neighbouring shop, and superintending
the purchase of a long-coveted bowl resplendent with gold-fish.
"They're just right," she said; "he will like something live, I know;
he's tired of his models. They are all nowhere now, since he has had
that girl, that daughter of Jairus. Oh yes, monsieur, I know all about
it. She's a young person in Lyons, and he wants his father to send for
her, and do I don't know what besides. But I don't want her here with
her big staring eyes and her Sainte Nitouche airs."
L'oncle Auguste raised his eyebrows in a way peculiar to himself. Who
was this girl in Lyons? How was it that a man of his importance in the
family should be reduced to picking up his information in this stray
fashion?
Rosa was quick to read his thoughts, and saw her opportunity. Tossing
her head so energetically, that the last hairpin gave way and those
obstreperous red locks of hers came tumbling over her eyes, she said--
"It's no business of mine. Besides, _I_ never speak of young ladies who
write letters," and another shake of the locks emphasised her meaning.
That was all. It would have been _infra dig._ for _l'oncle_ to have
cross-questioned her, so he said nothing, but his eyebrows went up a
little higher, and remained there quite a while after the little female
Iago had left the stage triumphantly minus hairpins, but plus goldfish.
I say stage advisedly, for Rosa was a consummate little actress, and as
the père Sinel of the Théâtre Français used to tell us, there was no
doubt her talent was inherited from him.
The uncle went home in a reflective frame of mind. He could see no
particular objection to some short-lived intrigue.
"A good-looking young fellow like Claude," he muttered to himself. "To
be sure. We all know what's what--but that's not that, or his father
would not know of it, or at least not be asked to bring her to Paris.
There must be something more serious at the bottom of this. _Petite
guenon va!_ (You little she-monkey!)" and he growled as his thoughts
reverted to Rosa; but being himself something of a bully, he rather
appreciated her impudence. So when he later on related the gold-fish
incident to some friends at his club, he wound up with his favourite
phrase--
"Now mark my words, gentlemen" (he always insisted on having his words
marked at the club), "mark my words, that girl will go far; and when she
finds a comb to keep that crop of hair in order, she'll find a carriage
and pair too."
As I have said before, the subject of matrimony, applied to his nephew,
was of all others the one that the uncle was touchy about, and anything
that threatened to delay or obstruct the ambitious plans he had formed
for that nephew must be combated. He had more than once expounded the
true principles of worldly wisdom to him, but had always been nonplussed
by Claude's independent spirit and his ready wit, so he did not go
straight off and make a scene; he must get at the truth though, but he
must bide his time and watch his opportunity.
The facts of the case were simply these: There had been some question of
finding Madeleine occupation in Paris, for it had become desirable that
something should be done to give her the means of earning her own
livelihood, and Miss Rosa, who had caught scraps of conversation between
the father and son, had just put two and two together in her fanciful
way, and had jumped to her own conclusions not complimentary to the
Sainte Nitouche.
It so chanced that at the time Madeleine's future status was under
consideration, I was able to visit Lyons, so I had at last an
opportunity of seeing my friend's protégée. It had been arranged that I
should meet her at the hospital in the Économe's Office, and I was not a
little anxious to see what she would be like. In the office I found
Monsieur Tamiasse, a small man, seated at a disproportionately large
table. I was struck, too, by the size of the fine old room, and somewhat
overawed by its contents.
There was an air of systematic order and bureaucratic rule about it that
did not fail to impress a frail Bohemian like myself; there were many
books, boxes, and cases about, labelled, ticketed, and docketed, and I
felt sure I was going to be placed in safe custody somewhere in a
pigeon-hole, neatly linked to Claude, Madeleine, and the doctors. But
Monsieur Tamiasse soon put me at my ease. He was a bright, genial little
man, a first-class Économe, wearing a second-class wig, and probably in
receipt of a third-class salary. I was Monsieur Dupont's ambassador and
plenipotentiary, and as such I was received with a warm welcome, and
officially thanked for all that had been done for Madeleine. I could but
return the compliment, for Monsieur Tamiasse had quite constituted
himself her guardian, and had proved himself a most practical and useful
friend, ever ready to smooth any little difficulties that came in her
way. We soon got to the object of my visit, and talked over the next
step to take in Madeleine's interest.
An extensive business in ecclesiastical embroideries is carried on in
Lyons, and it had been suggested that she should enter an _atelier de
broderie_. Claude had already expressed his approval, so nothing
remained but to find a suitable opening for her. An excellent lady, who
was at the head of such an atelier, was a personal friend of the
Économe's, and so all could be soon satisfactorily settled.
When our little consultation was at an end, Madeleine was called in. I
was rather formally introduced to her, and to the Sister of Mercy who
accompanied her; the latter one of those excellent Soeurs de Charité
who devote their lives to the tending of the sick and helpless.
"You have been Madeleine's ministering angel, ma soeur," I said--"I am
sure we are deeply grateful to you. _N'est ce pas, mademoiselle?_" I
added, turning to Madeleine.
"_Ah oui, monsieur_," she answered.
"And you are the good fairy who taught her to read and write," I went
on, "and there again, I am sure we are very grateful to you. _N'est ce
pas, mademoiselle?_"
"_Ah oui, monsieur_," she once more answered.
She was decidedly shy, and only raised her eyes for a moment, by way of
seeing those three words safe on their way.
The eyes were the amethyst eyes of the picture. I had at once recognised
those, but in all else I found Madeleine quite different to what I had
expected. In fact, at this, our first meeting, I was rather
disappointed. Instead of the delicate poetical creature I had always
fancied her, I found a strong and hearty girl, with fresh red lips and
rather sunburnt cheeks, but without a suspicion of Biblical halo
encircling the several coils of brown hair that were loosely wound
around her head.
She, I think, was disappointed too in me. Whether, in her mind's eye,
she had also pictured me surrounded by some sort of halo or blazing
glory, I do not know. It is as likely as not, for Claude had mentioned
me in his letters to her, and he was never impartial in his judgment
when speaking or writing of his friends. And wisely too, I think, for
whom can a man look to for partiality, if not to a friend? David and
Jonathan, I feel sure, were not unbiassed in the estimate they formed
of one another. But however pleasant it may be to find one's merits
acknowledged and one's virtues extolled, it is decidedly a drawback when
one is called upon to live up to the reputation that has preceded one.
The Madeleines and others will seek in vain for the halo, and
undoubtedly be disappointed.
The good sister took her leave, and Monsieur Tamiasse left me to have a
_tête-à-tête_ with Claude's _protégée_, whilst he at once wrote off to
the lady embroideress who was to take charge of her. I had by this time
quite realised that Madeleine and the daughter of Jairus were two very
distinct persons, and that the former was none the less attractive for
never having been called upon to cross and to re-cross the Styx. I had
gone a step further, and looking at her with an artistic eye, I had even
noticed that her eyelashes had considerably grown since the days when
Claude drew the eyes _à la_ Gabriel Max.
So far I did not seem to have hit on a good conversational opening. To
be sure, if Madeleine had been an English girl, I might have made a
remark about the weather and had a fair start; as it was I went on at
random and said--
"I am so glad you liked that book I sent you." (It was Grimm's "Fairy
Tales.") "You did like it, didn't you?"
"Oh yes, monsieur; so much I can't tell you."
"But do try to tell me. I so want to know why you liked it."
"Who could help liking it? It's all about the fairies and fairyland."
"Yes, mademoiselle, that is quite a wonderful world to peep into."
"It _is_ wonderful. It's _my_ world. Things happen there just as they
happen to me."
"Well, I hope it was only the good fairies you had to do with."
"I don't know that, but they protected me from the bad ones. And they
wouldn't let the dragon devour me, but nursed and cured me, and taught
me to pray to the Sainte Vierge."
Here her ologies were becoming somewhat mixed, for she had evidently not
attempted to settle in her mind what of gratitude to give unto Theos and
what unto Mythos.
"It was one of the good ones, I suppose, that taught you to read and
write?"
"Yes, that was Sister Louise whom you saw just now; she's as good a
fairy as ever was. Ah, monsieur, you can't understand it, you can't
realise what a wonderful thing it is to be able to read and write. You
learnt it when you were a child and _couldn't_ know; but I was quite a
big girl and had made my first communion when I began to learn those
wonderful signs that you can say everything with--everything you can
possibly think of--and that make it possible to read anything anybody in
the whole world ever thought of."
"Well, I am quite glad you told me. Now I can report to Monsieur Dupont
that you are both well and happy."
"That you can; and tell Monsieur Claude that I am grateful to him for
bringing me those three fairies. It was that morning, the second time
he came---- But I am talking too much," she said, interrupting herself
suddenly, "and that is rude. I hope you will excuse, monsieur."
"Excuse! Why, my dear child, I love to hear you talk about all that--I
am devoted to Fairyland myself; it is quite the artist's home, you know,
and I must tell you my experience of it presently; but first I am
curious to know how he came to bring those good fairies to you. And
three too; just like in the tales; everything always goes by threes."
"I never thought of that," she said reflectively, and then continued,
once for all giving up the idea that talking much was rude. "I've got
them pressed between the leaves of my prayer-book. They were three
beautiful red roses when he brought them; I never saw such three roses
before. I turned them to the light and tried to make them happy whilst
they were with me, but to be sure I knew I could not keep them alive
long, so when they seemed ready to die, I put them in the book. They
were under my pillow when I was very, very ill. I must have been bad,
for one night the doctors thought I was going to die, and Soeur Louise
wouldn't let Soeur Amélie take her turn to sit by me. But I knew I was
not going to die; I even knew I was going to get quite well, because the
three good roses told me so--I hope you won't laugh at me, monsieur, for
calling a rose a fairy, but I----"
"Now really, mademoiselle, you couldn't for a moment imagine that I
should be so matter-of-fact and heartless as to laugh."
"Well, what do you think of her, monsieur?" broke in Monsieur Tamiasse.
"What does she look like now? There's her record in that third Division,
Casier G, No. 721. There we have her from the first day when she was
brought to us, to the day when we thought she was going to be carried
away from us, and so on up to date. She is not a bad specimen of the
sort we turn out at the Lyons City Hospital, is she? Not that we always
succeed. We are beaten more than once by the grim old gentleman with the
scythe. But we are always ready to fight him, and we manage sometimes to
get hold of his hour-glass and turn it upside down. Well, to-morrow we
hand this young lady over to my friend Mademoiselle Chevillard. She will
be here at twelve o'clock. Will you come and give your sanction to the
transfer?"
"Certainly," I said, and took my leave.
And as I went home I thought the world was not so bad after all, with
its Sisters of Charity, its bright, devoted little Économe, and its
Madeleine with her friends the fairies.
To-morrow came, and with it the transfer. I sanctioned it with all my
heart, for Mademoiselle Chevillard at once struck me as just the person
we could entrust our ward to. She and the Économe were settling the
business part of the transaction, and I turned to Madeleine and asked
her whether she was pleased to learn the art of embroidery.
"Pleased!" she said, "why, it's the very thing I have always been
longing for. That's just why I am going to get it. I told you that
things happened to me as they do in the fairy tales. So my wish is to
be fulfilled, and I'm going to paint pictures like the one Monsieur le
Curé showed me, all done with a needle."
I wanted to know more about Monsieur le Curé and the picture, and so she
told me he was her great friend and instructor at the convent. He had
one day taken her into the sacristy of his church, and there she had
seen the most lovely piece of embroidery one could imagine. It was under
glass and in a gold frame, and represented the Madonna surrounded by
little lambs with silky curls; one of them she was fondly petting. Over
her head two little angels were holding a large crown, all of
intertwined gold threads, and at her feet l'enfant Jésus was seated on
the grass amongst flowers, every one of which was a combination of
glossy silks and sparkling beads and spangles. I remember it all so
well, for I am sure that girl taught me, if not to admire, at least to
analyse the beauties of ecclesiastical embroidery.
By this time we had got quite confidential, and she said, "You were
going to tell me about your fairyland."
So I told her that I too was one of those privileged creatures to whom
all good things seemed to come without much waiting. I could not lay
claim to a fairy godmother, but my godfather was quite a match for any
good genius of either sex.
Yes, mademoiselle, every Thursday evening, as the clock struck half-past
six, he would appear in a hallowed place called the "House of Robes."[9]
There he stood, every inch a ruler, the centre figure in a group of
loyal vassals, waiting for a sign from his hand--I see him now--He
raises his magic wand; a great rite is about to be performed, and
spell-bound we listen for the coming sounds. Then onwards, upwards he
leads us, into realms of unfathomable mysteries, where Music rules
supreme."
"Who was that, monsieur? I cannot follow you."
"A magician, Maddalena! He could conjure up to your vision the dream of
a Midsummer night, and his were the Songs that needed no words. Now, he
has left us for the very realms his fancy had created. When he arrived
there, the gate was opened wide to admit him, and Elijah the prophet
stood ready with St. Paul to receive him. No wonder you are mystified,
my dear. I'll explain it all to you another time. I really only meant to
tell you that his name was Felix, and that means happy, and with the
name my good godfather gave me happiness. Yes, good things seem to come
to me as they do to you. May it last! At any rate we will hold on to the
fairies as long as we can, and if ever the wicked dragon crosses our
paths, we will stand by one another, won't we?"
"Well, I can't do much," she said, "but I'll run a needle through him,
if he means mischief."
And the offensive and defensive alliance thus ratified, we parted, each
the richer for a new friend.
In my letters to Claude I gave very full particulars of my conversations
with Madeleine, and of the practical result of my visit; in fact it is
from these letters, now in my hands, that I have been largely quoting.
More than a twelvemonth was to elapse before we met again, for I had
left Paris to pursue my studies under Kaulbach in Munich. The numerous
letters Claude wrote to me during the interval, mostly treat of the two
subjects uppermost in his mind, art and love. As I once more read them
over after many years, I am aware that the history of his loves really
offers no very remarkable features, and I approach the subject with some
diffidence on that account. But on the other hand I remember that we all
like the old story that always assumes a new shape; we like it perhaps,
because, in this wicked world of ours, hatred and evil influences so
constantly cross our path, that we are always glad to turn aside when
the opportunity offers, and to listen to tales of love and devotion. And
there were gold and silver threads that ran through Claude's life, as
they do through most people's.
He was very impressionable, but he never treated love lightly; he often
would see beauty where I, for the life of me, saw no more than ordinary
good looks; in fact his artistic temperament would lead him to evolve a
perfect Venus or a paragon of virtue from very slender materials. But he
was too honest, and too much of an idealist, to indulge in the popular
pastime of flirtation. Love skirmishes he might be drawn into, but they
were not of his seeking, and he usually remained on the defensive. The
Venuses and Paragons might rule supreme for a while, but when--as would
soon happen--they were found wanting in some of the perfections his
imagination had endowed them with, his idol had to step off its
pedestal. Nor was he particularly humbled when he had to acknowledge his
mistake. He would often say that it was quite a different thing to be
"amoureux d'une femme," and to "aimer une femme"--to be in love with, or
to love a woman. And then, dear old mystic that he was at the bottom of
his heart, he would conjure up a "Vision of Love," as he called it, a
vision to be "divined, not defined." Was he ever to marry and be happy?
I often wondered.
When I arrived in Paris, I found Claude at the station, and we embraced
in true continental fashion. I had been invited to stay with him and his
father, and I was soon established under their hospitable roof.
The first twenty-four hours we slept little and talked much. I knew all
about the picture and all about a new star in his horizon, Mademoiselle
Jeanne, but what is _all_ when it is crammed into the few pages of a
letter? Very little as compared with what can be made of it in
conversation.
Of the picture later on; first about the girl. Mademoiselle Jeanne was
the daughter of the _grand Roule_; so we had called her father, for no
better reason than that his charming residence was in the Faubourg du
Roule.
He was one of the leading physicians in Paris, more particularly known
by his writings, which treated of some pathological speciality, I forget
which. Her mother was an Englishwoman. During a twenty years' residence
in Paris she had added to the sterling qualities of her race the
graceful attributes of a Parisian. She was not only a charming hostess,
but a woman of great literary attainments, and indeed she must have been
more than that, an erudite scholar, if, as the world said, some of the
best pages in the doctor's books came from her pen. He gave colour to
the assertion, for by word and deed he showed that he held her and her
judgment in the highest esteem. It was quite a pleasure to see this
united couple together, a pleasure I often enjoyed, for during my first
long stay in Paris I had been made quite at home in their house.
Jeanne, or, as her mother persisted in calling her, Jane, was about
sixteen when I first knew her. She was reserved and diffident; happiest
when allowed to remain unnoticed in the background, positively
distressed when dragged into broad daylight, or obliged to take her
share in gaieties. I soon discovered the cause of her shyness. She
suffered from the consciousness that she had red hair; in fact that
consciousness seemed to have sunk deep into her heart and mind, and to
have made her morbidly sensitive.
In those days red hair evoked nothing but a pointed reference to
carrots--that from the ill-natured; the good-natured would feel
compassion for the poor girls who were thus afflicted. I wonder
sometimes whether the red of those days was the same we admire now,
whether those carrots of my youth can have been transformed into the
lusciously lustrous locks of to-day. Were they formerly only under a
cloud and crushed under the weight of unanimous condemnation? Could the
molten gold have been hidden away, and the deep-toned brass notes
silenced, and were they only waiting to be combed and coaxed to the
front?--Well, the trials of the sandy-hair phase are over, and I, for
one, am grateful to live in the Renaissance period, and to witness the
triumph of woman's loveliest crown.
Poor Mademoiselle Jeanne did what she could to conceal the luxuriant
crop Nature had given her. She wound it in tight coils round the back of
her head, where at least she could not see it if she chanced to come
across a looking-glass. She brushed it off her forehead with a
determination to show as little as possible of it in front, and if a few
spiteful stray hairs would not lie down with the rest, she cut them off,
much to my distress, for, when talking to her, my eyes were always
wandering to the little border of reddish stubble that remained, and I
saw her see me seeing, and that made it awkward for both.
Her extreme sensitiveness no doubt originated in the unkind comments
made upon her in her childhood. As she grew up, it seemed impossible to
efface these early impressions. She had got it into her head that she
was the ugly duckling, and neither parents nor friends could persuade
her to the contrary. But she gradually accepted what she considered the
inevitable, and at the time Claude appeared on the scene (I introduced
him to the family) she had sufficiently overcome her shyness, to perform
the duties of a young lady of eighteen in her mother's salon, without
betraying how much she would have preferred keeping in the background.
It was very characteristic of that young lady that, when she did emerge
from the background, she would do so with a rush; whether she offered
you a chair or a cup of tea, she came upon you unexpectedly, firing as
it were, at close quarters, and retreating before you could capture her.
"I know I'm a coward," she said to me one day when we were talking of
heroes, "and it's just because I'm a coward that there is no virtue I
admire more than courage. If I were a man, I would, I could"----
There she stopped short, and left me to guess the rest. I often noticed
that when her thoughts were about to come to the surface, she would get
alarmed at her own boldness, and take refuge in some commonplace remark,
or relapse into silence, leaving your curiosity ungratified as to what
was really going on in her mind.
With Claude she was more at her ease than with any of the other young
men that came to the house. This was not to be wondered at, for Claude,
as I have said, was the sort of man who would inspire even little street
girls with confidence. I don't think he ever made any comments on her
hair, but perhaps his eye too sometimes rested unconsciously on the
stubbles, and thus exercised its influence; certain it is that an
influence was at work. The little refractory hairs that had been a
source of so much trouble, were allowed to follow their natural bent,
and began to wave and frizz. That was a symptom: others were to follow.
One evening conversation had turned on skulls and brains, and the doctor
had given us some interesting facts relating to the comparative sizes
of the brains in man and in the inferior animals. Claude, who had made
quite a special study of anatomy, took up the subject from the artistic
point of view, and showed the relationship between brains and beauty.
"The great artists," he said, "have ever given due predominance to the
cranium over the eyes, nose, and mouth. The receptacle of the brains
must lord it over the representatives of the senses. That is, too, why
they have made so much of the hair, using it to give full development to
the upper part of the head. It's a most fascinating art, that of the
hairdresser," he wound up, "and I sometimes feel that _Anch'io_ might
have been _Parruchiere_! I think I missed my vocation!"
These observations of Claude's had a remarkable effect. The coils were
loosened, a little at first, then by degrees more; and the material at
hand, one could not help noticing, was being reconstructed after the
style adopted by the immortal Venus of Milo. At that time Claude was but
moderately interested in Jeanne, but, much as a gardener looks with
satisfaction at the fresh shoots of a plant that seemed doomed, so he
looked with pleasure on the rising waves which he knew had come at his
bidding. His eyes had a way of indicating a little in advance what his
lips were going to say; it was a case of light travelling faster than
sound; so first came the twinkle and then the words. Jeanne got the full
benefit of the approving twinkle, and was relieved when she found that
it was not followed by a congratulatory speech. He only said--
"I see your brain is struggling for space," and then changed the
subject.
It is surprising how symptoms have a way of begetting symptoms, and what
striking effects they are apt to have on sensitive natures like
Claude's. He became more and more of a gardener, and brought beneficent
sunshine into the life of the budding flower.
On the 15th of August he and Jeanne were together at the Turkish
Embassy. They were amongst the guests invited to witness the grand
spectacle provided for the pleasure-seeking Parisian on that day, the
_Mi-Août_, as it is called. It was the great Napoleon's birthday,
henceforth to be consecrated as the National Holiday. The newly founded
Empire spared nothing to organise fêtes in general, and this one in
particular, on the grandest scale. All the resources of the decorator's
art had been brought to bear on the Champs Elysées, and with such
success that no fields could have looked more Elysian. The sculptor had
contributed colossal figures, the architect triumphal arches, and an
untold number of _lampions_ were suspended in festoons which reached in
gradually ascending curves from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc de
Triomphe de l'Étoile.
A grand review, a military pageant, such as only a Napoleon could call
into existence, was once more to show an admiring universe the
unrivalled superiority of the French army, when marshalled by the
Emperor now representing the greatest of Cesarian dynasties.
The Parisian was overflowing with patriotic emotions; his heart beat
fast and vibrated with legitimate pride, as drums and bugles summoned
him to witness the glorious spectacle. From all sides the people were
streaming towards the Place de la Concorde. There, to your left, if you
turn your back on the Obelisk and the fountains, you see the garden of
what was then the Turkish Embassy (now a club). It is considerably
raised above the level of the Rue Boissy d'Anglais on the one side, and
the Avenue Gabrielle on the other. It was a point of vantage from which
it must have been quite pleasant for the privileged beau-monde to look
down on the struggling plebeian.
Jeanne and Claude had been walking up and down that garden absorbed in
earnest conversation. He was bitterly opposed to these military
pageants, and with the natural eloquence of conviction, he had been
inveighing against the delusions of mankind that culminate in
fratricidal warfare. He was particularly hard on Horace Vernet, that
panegyrist of the _piou-piou_, as he called him.
"How can a man lower his art to the level of tunics and red breeches?"
he asked. "He's at best a stump orator on canvas, using his brushes to
tickle the national pride of the Frenchman! 'L'Empire, c'est la Paix,'
indeed! Does it look like it?"
"Well, so far it does," said Mademoiselle Jeanne. "Surely this is a
peaceful fête. See how the people enjoy it."
"Yes, mademoiselle, poor blind deluded people! Look again, and fancy
that man shot through the heart with a bullet, and that boy on his
shoulders pinned to the wall with a bayonet."
"Oh, don't speak like that, Monsieur Claude; you know I'm an abject
coward. I should fly to the ends of the earth rather than face danger."
"You are right. I beg your pardon; I know I ought not to conjure up ugly
visions, least of all before your eyes, Mademoiselle Jeanne."
"I dare say you think me very foolish, Monsieur Claude, but----"
"Not foolish, mademoiselle; on the contrary, I am grateful to you for
pulling me up when I fly off at a tangent as I did just now."
"Yes, monsieur," she answered, "I know you are always indulgent. That
is, I suppose, why I venture to pull you up, as you call it. You see, I
can't always follow you, and I don't want to be left behind."
That was a long sentence for her.
Whilst the ambassador's guests had elbow-room and to spare, the crowd
below got more and more densely packed; it had so far surged hither and
thither to the accompaniment of good-natured jokes, banter and _blague_,
but suddenly a cry of alarm was raised:--
"_Nom d'un nom_, stand back! _Pour l'amour de Dieu_, don't push; you'll
crush the child! The woman is fainting. Keep her head up or she's lost!"
Those are terrible moments when a crowd first realises imminent danger,
and the instinct of self-preservation overrides all fellow-feeling,
shows no mercy, gives no quarter. Yes, indeed, keep your head up, or you
are lost. In the garden above, the festive gathering was suddenly
changed into a scene of confusion. The ladies shrieked, and one or two
of them swooned in sheer sympathetic terror. Men thundered words of
command to the crowd below, that were lost in a sea of noises. At the
first indication of danger, Jeanne had darted away like an arrow into
the house; Claude was to the front trying, but in vain, to reach the
child that was being held up by a pair of strong arms. A few instants
more and Jeanne was back, carrying a chair. Not a pin could drop to the
ground that crowd covered, but the chair did, and, with its aid, the
work of rescue began.
"Get another," she called to Claude, "that one will be broken up
directly," and off she was again. Another minute and she appeared at a
window overlooking the Rue Boissy d'Anglais, brandishing the first thing
she chanced to lay hands upon--a large Turkish sabre. The shy girl with
the red hair, the abject coward, was transformed into a modern Jeanne
d'Arc, mowing the air with the curved blade of the Saracens; a curious
picture, that arrested the attention of the crowd beneath, at a point
some two hundred yards in the rear of the dangerous corner of the Avenue
Gabrielle, thus holding in check for a moment the seething mass of
people who were pressing forward, unconscious of the danger to life and
limb they were creating.
"En arrière!" she cried. "On s'écrase la bas! Barrez la rue!" An officer
of the Gensdarmerie took in the situation. He backed his horse on the
advancing crowd, orders were given to stop the influx from the Rue du
Faubourg St. Honoré, and a catastrophe was averted.
The story of the timely relief of those besieged garden walls rapidly
spread amongst the guests, who were gradually recovering from their
fright. The ladies had ceased shrieking, and had completed the elaborate
process of swooning, and of being brought round by the polite attentions
of the gentlemen; they were now extolling Jeanne's presence of mind.
"My dear," said one old lady, "without you they would have stormed the
house, and with my wretched health, I should not have survived it."
"Yes," added her son-in-law, "single-handed she beat the rabble back.
She ought to have the Legion d'Honneur."
"Take me away," Jeanne said to Claude; "anywhere, into the house."
"Do you mind my stopping with you?" asked Claude, but not till they had
settled on a many-cushioned divan in the coolest and quietest room of
the Embassy.
"Do stop," she said, "to protect me from the rabble. I might not be able
to beat it back single-handed."
Claude thought he had never seen her hair so beautifully untidy before.
* * * * *
"I am sure I said nothing; no, _nothing_. But I can't help fancying she
thinks I said _something_, and that's what makes me miserable."
So Claude assured me as I closely cross-questioned him on the subject of
that day's conversation. Something had happened since to make him revert
to the many-cushioned divan with uneasiness. He had gone, much against
his inclination, on a visit to his uncle's.
"I know it's a guet-apens, a trap," he had said to me. "The old story;
he wants to marry me to some money-bag. Anyway, he's too late now; I'm
not in the market. For all that I wish I had Jeanne down there to help
me beat off the enemy with her Turkish scimitar. Bother matrimony! Why
must we always be thinking of it? As if loving and being loved wasn't
heavenly enough by itself. And why must we always go a-hunting in
so-called society? Don't you think we ought to stick to our Quartier
Latin and take a spouse of our own Bohemian type, instead of pottering
about in swell salons and falling in love with some fine lady who will
expect a fellow to go about disguised as a gentleman for the rest of his
natural life?"
Such were his sentiments before he started. Four days afterwards he
returned in love with a beautiful woman, and quite disposed to make a
gentleman, or even a fool, of himself for her sake.
I happened to know her. Her name was Olga Rabachot. Her father was a
Pole, one of those ill-fated noblemen who died for their country, whose
estates were sequestrated, and whose fortune went to swell the coffers
of the Russian Treasury. The mother and daughter settled in Paris. I
suppose they lived in a garret, and gave music lessons, after the style
of good Polish refugees; but I really know nothing about it, and
probably only derive my impressions from the circumstance that the
mother sang and the daughter played one evening when I was introduced
to them at the house of Hittorff, the famous architect of the Place de
la Concorde. A short time afterwards it was rumoured that a Monsieur
Rabachot, an elderly gentleman who had made a fortune in business, had
become much attracted by the charms and graces of the mother, Madame
Somethingiska. This proved to be true, but only inasmuch as he saw in
her an eligible mother-in-law. We soon heard to our surprise that his
hand and his fortune had been accepted by the daughter, the younger
_iska_.
The curiously assorted couple enjoyed but a brief term of matrimonial
bliss, or whatever else it may have been. Before a year had gone by, the
wealthy manufacturer was suddenly struck down by heart disease, as he
stood by the open grave of a friend. The incident made quite a sensation
in Paris at the time.
It was the bereaved widow, then, that Claude met at his uncle's. The
late husband had been on terms of close friendship with the tanner, and
had appointed him one of the executors of his will. But all business
connected with this had been settled nearly a twelvemonth ago, and now
l'oncle Auguste thought it about time to put his abilities in the
matrimonial agency line to the test. So, as Claude had correctly
guessed, he had prepared his little guet-apens.
With Claude it was love at first sight--that is, if we may apply the
term love to what is begotten of intense admiration for the creature
beauties of woman. She had eyes, so it seemed to me at least, that might
rest when off duty, but would ever be on the alert where they could be
used to advantage. Her mouth, I must say, was most attractive. The lips
were carved, curved, and coloured to perfection, and I cannot recollect
ever having seen any of their kind better fitted to be met by other
lips. Her pallor was interesting, her hair jet black, and her manners
fascinating; but for all that I could never have worshipped at her
shrine. Not so Claude. He saw everything in her that a man sees when he
is struck blind by the God of love.
As we walked home together, on his return from that first meeting, we
talked it all over. When we got home we talked it all over again. First
it was daytime; then came the night; then the day broke again, and we
were still talking--always on that inexhaustible theme that, since
articulate sound was created, has used up more language than all other
themes put together.
It must have been thus, I feel confident, that Orestes and Pylades
talked by the hour when one of them or both were in love, and so too all
the O.'s and P.'s, and, for the matter of that, all the other initials
of the alphabet, ranging from the Alpha to the Omega.
At first I was not sympathetically inclined, and put spokes into the
wheels that were running away with Claude. After a while I merely tried
to apply the brake, lest he should rush down hill too rapidly, but I
finally found myself running and rolling along, doing my best to keep
pace with him.
The fact is his enthusiasm was catching. He described that woman so
vividly that, for the time being, I could not help seeing her as he
painted her. To be sure the thousand and one little details that made up
our conversation do not bear repetition. The facts that I elicited were
these: At his uncle's bidding Claude came, Claude saw, and Claude was
conquered. Was she conquered too? That was a question not easily
answered. During the four days they were together she sometimes accepted
his attentions very graciously; at other times she was anything but
encouraging, and even showed so marked a preference for the uncle that
it seemed as if the young widow had preserved a taste for elderly
husbands. He, l'oncle Auguste, inclined as he was under ordinary
circumstances to lord it over friend and foe alike, was unmistakably
cowed in the presence of the Polish fascinator. She not only showed
interest in the tanner's work, but also fearlessly indulged in
criticism; this more especially in reference to the ventilation of some
of the workshops. That she should have selected this particular subject
for her adverse comments rather surprised me, for I had been brought up
in the belief that the Poles might ventilate their grievances, but not
much else.
The subject led to a rather lively discussion between Madame Rabachot
and Claude's uncle, she being of the very advanced opinion that a man,
even if he only worked from ten to twelve hours a day in an enclosed
space, was entitled to a fair amount of pure air, whereas the
distinguished head of the concern, who was of the good old school,
maintained that in his experience of many years' standing he had always
gone by the golden rule that the amount of fresh air provided for the
workman should be in exact proportion to the wages he is paid. The fair
advocate of man's rights, however, stood her ground so well that the
unfortunate employer had to give way, and promise the desired reforms.
This episode made a great impression on Claude, as well it might.
Perhaps, though, he went a little far, when he said she was a noble
creature, the champion of the great cause of suffering humanity, and the
like. To be sure the chief factor of her strength was the splendid gift
she possessed of using her eyes.
I elicited that even whilst skirmishing with the uncle she always had at
least one eye on the nephew; that one was evidently enough to hold him
in subjection, for with it she had condescended to say many pleasant
things that she did not deem it desirable to entrust to the
indiscretions of the lips. Taking it all in all, I came to the
conclusion that she was, to say the least of it, very much interested in
Claude, but that, being of a kittenish disposition, she had coquetted
with the uncle in the playful way so frequently practised by women when
they look sweet upon one man with a view to quickening the pulses of
another, whose affections they aspire to secure.
If Claude said he was miserable, it was not so much because it was yet
an open question whether the young widow could reciprocate his feelings,
but because the image of Jeanne stood between him and his new love. He
knew that Jeanne was more than partial to him, and he felt that he had
been slowly but surely drawn towards her.
How much or how little had he really shown the interest he took in her
was the question that exercised his mind. Had he ever said anything that
she could have construed into an acknowledgment of a deeper feeling than
that of friendship, anything that would be at least morally binding? No,
certainly not in words; but then, to be sure, much can be said without
the use of spoken language. Of all the songs without words the love song
is the most legible. Besides, the most harmless of words can make
mischief if they are taken in connection with what has preceded. The
statement that twice two makes four is innocent enough in itself, but it
may, under given circumstances, be made to say that she has two eyes and
so have you, and that, if she could only vouchsafe to see with your eyes
as you see with hers, twice two in this particular case would make one.
Nor need you propound subtle solutions of arithmetical problems; you
need but admire the humble cottage as you go across fields with her, if
you want to commit yourself irrevocably, and so too, the mere mention of
the moon has been enough to dispose of a man for life.
Claude may not have strictly avoided every opening of this kind, but I
certainly do not think he had any cause for self-reproach. I felt sorry
for Jeanne, for it was evident that, for some time to come at least,
there was little prospect of her regaining whatever hold she might have
had on him. There was nothing to be done in that direction; so we
shelved Mademoiselle Jeanne _sine die,_ and talked of the other one.
That other one had been particularly sympathetic in her appreciation of
Claude's picture; it had at last been completed and sent to the Salon.
On the varnishing day it was sold to a dealer for two thousand francs.
"That goes to the Madeleine fund," said Dupont, who was always planning
great things for the girl's future.
"That goes to me," said the dealer, as he resold the picture and
pocketed a profit of fifteen hundred francs.
The "Daughter of Jairus" could not fail to attract much attention.
Original as it was in its composition, and independent in its conception
of a religious subject, it led to much heated controversy in the leading
papers of the day. In some of them the artist was lauded to the skies;
in others, roundly abused. Those three poor dear little innocents
standing at the open door of Jairus's house, more than any other
incident in the picture, gave rise to brilliant argument, vigorously
attacked as they were on the one hand, and heroically defended on the
other.
Virtually the able art-critics were divided into two camps, from which
they issued grandiloquent manifestoes, and passed judgment on art and
artists, past, present, and future. I have not preserved cuttings from
the papers, but I think I can give a pretty correct idea of the opposite
views taken by those heaven-born wiseacres, the art-critics of the day,
only apologising to them for my poor rendering of their doctrines.
"Monsieur Claude Dupont," said one set, "is a young man of great
promise; he is a powerful draughtsman, and his gifts, if turned to
account, may prove him to be a worthy champion of that severe and chaste
school that gave us a Lesueur, an Ingres, and a Flandrin. Whilst
prognosticating so bright a future to Monsieur Dupont, we feel, however,
that we should not be doing our duty, if we did not warn him against the
perverse influence that the apostles of the so-called Realistic school
have already begun to exercise over his brush. We allude to the three
children most unseemingly intruding on the grand scene that is being
enacted in the house of sorrow. Let us hope that the danger that
threatens the young artist may yet be averted, and that so much talent
may be applied to perpetuate the traditions of a great past."
"Monsieur Claude Dupont," said the other camp, "has a great future
before him, if he wisely utilises his gifts. We welcome in him a painter
who, in his treatment of a religious subject, breaks with the traditions
of an effete school. The introduction of those three children, peering
with wondering eyes into the house of mysteries, we consider a stroke of
genius. But for all that, the fetters forged by the past are still
clinging to him. We heartily congratulate him on the step he has taken
towards emancipation, but we would have him fully realise, that if he is
to fulfil the brilliant promise of this his first picture, he must
abjure once for all the errors and conventionalities of a school
destined to perish at the hands of triumphant Realism."
These newspaper comments affected different people in different ways.
Rosa Bonheur Sinel resented anything short of unqualified praise, and
was simply indignant with one writer who had ventured to criticise the
drapery she had sat for. The article commenting on the masterly drawing
of her foot, she kept in a discarded hatbox with other treasures,
prominent amongst which was a defunct goldfish preserved in a glass
bottle.
Madeleine was supremely happy. She had seen a very sympathetic notice in
the leading paper of Lyons.
"I am proud of the picture," she wrote to Claude, "and I can think
of nothing else. I am sure I am quite glad I was so ill, if that
helped you at all. The man who wrote the article was kind enough to
say he liked the way I opened my eyes so much, that he was glad I
had come to life again. I thought that rather flippant. Don't you
think so, too? But then he described the whole picture so
beautifully, that I fancied I could see it; he seemed to like it
all, only he wanted some more 'impasto.' What can that be? May I
tell you about a dream I had? You know I am always having dreams;
you won't mind, will you? It's quite short, and it is all about
you. I saw you in a large looking-glass, but not all of you; only
from your neck to your feet; I could not see your head. Besides, I
should not have noticed it if it had been in the looking-glass; I
could only look at your feet. You had those slippers on I
embroidered for you last year, and I was so unhappy, because they
were so ugly; so unhappy, that I woke up quite upset. And since
then I've been thinking, how could I ever have sent you such a
stupid flower pattern, all so hard and stiff? I do feel ashamed of
it now.
"Madame Chevillard is so kind. She says I am her daughter, and I
feel as if I really were. In the evening I go up to her room, and
she unlocks her treasure cupboard, and takes out something to show
me and tell me about. She has got beautiful books, and she lets me
read them to her; she sits in her big armchair and looks sweet, and
she seems to know everything that is in the books. There is one
that just tells all about the artists; there are lots of hard words
in it, and one can only read a little of it at a time. Sometimes
she laughs at me, because I say I should like to be an artist, too.
I don't mean painting, but making some kind of thing beautifully.
"And often, when I read to her, I begin to wonder again how the
thoughts get into the book, and I can get them out again.
"I ought to leave off writing, Madame Chevillard says, so adieu,
Monsieur.--I am, your grateful friend,
"MADELEINE.
"_P.S._--Please throw away the slippers; do. I am making you a
surprise, and madame says it is going to be a much better piece of
work this time. I should so much like to tell you what it is, but
then, to be sure, it would not be a surprise.
"How nice you have Monsieur Felix staying with you; he is good.
"I am glad your cough is better, but do take care of yourself."
Ah, yes! we all wished he would take care of himself; but, alas! that
is just the thing he could not be induced to do. One would think that to
be in love with one woman, and just out of love with another, would be
fairly enough to occupy one man's mind; but it was not so with Claude.
He was working in his studio, in museums and libraries, all day long,
and of an evening he would study anatomy, as if he bad been qualifying
for a doctor. Pictures seemed constantly coming to him, like so many
mocking Will-o'-the-wisps, flitting before his eyes when they were open,
and twitting his worried brain when they were closed.
Madeleine's letters were always particularly quieting and soothing to
him, and he used to say that, when he wanted a rest, he liked to sit
down and write to her.
* * * * *
Not long after Claude's momentous visit to his uncle I had again to
leave Paris. It was a wrench to part with him just when he needed a
friend to help him through his joys and troubles, but duties of various
kinds called me back to Munich, so there was nothing for it but to say
good-bye. We felt it doubly, for we knew we were not to meet for some
time. Write we should, to be sure, we were always good correspondents;
and this time there was no need to assure one another that we should do
so often.
I started from the Gare du Nord.
"Good-bye then, old fellow! _Au revoir--adieu!_"--lightly said, deeply
felt.
I rolled on, thinking of Claude and Jeanne, the widow and Madeleine,
till I got to my destination, my queer little studio in that ramshackle
old house, Schützenstrause No. 5/3 links. The address is no use now, for
that abode of mine is pulled down, as are its dear decrepit brothers and
sisters, and the primitive old station opposite. All to make room for
new buildings more suitable to tenants with sensitive noses and
rectilinear tastes.
The first letter that reached me from Paris was not, as I expected, in
Claude's handwriting, but in his father's. It told me that Claude was
too ill to write. He was to have gone down to his uncle's on the
Saturday (I had left on the Tuesday), and he was looking forward to what
only a short time previously he had called a trap, a guet-apens, with
the greatest impatience, for amongst other guests would be Olga
Rabachot. But before the day came he caught a severe chill, and was
peremptorily ordered to bed.
The fascinating widow he was never to see again. Not only the old cough
had returned, but with it symptoms sufficiently grave to make it
desirable he should winter abroad.
I had foreseen, and so has doubtless any one who has cared so far to
follow Dupont on the love-path, that it was not he who would marry, the
fascinating widow, but the uncle, and so I may as well state that such
was the case. How it came about I either never knew or have forgotten,
and as I should only be getting out of my depth if I attempted to fill
the gap with scraps of fiction, I will confine myself to the simple
narrative based on my recollections, and will merely add that I trust
the uncle and the aunt lived happily ever after, and that the workmen at
the dyer's works got as much ventilation as was procurable at that time
and in that particular part of the world.
Claude soon left for Mentone. Then came my turn; was it sympathy or was
it coincidence? About the same time I too was taken ill, and that
seriously. The cause was not far to seek: a component part in the great
scheme of creation is a certain vicious north-east wind that seems to
live and thrive on annihilation. This Boreas is a kind of ogre who feeds
not only on fat babies, but on any mortal thing that he can turn into
dust. Not satisfied with his legitimate prey, the autumn leaves, he
explores every nook and corner seeking whom he may devour. He found me
out one evening after a day of unusual heat, as soon after sunset he
suddenly came sweeping across the mountains that lie to the north-east
of Munich. For months to come he laid me low, very low, and thus all the
fine plans that Claude and I had made for a regular correspondence, that
would keep us linked together at least mentally, came to naught. Letters
dictated to the kind and anxious watchers by our respective bedsides
were but poor substitutes for the minutely detailed accounts of our
doings that we usually exchanged, or for the heartfelt effusions that
our friendship prompted.
But to talk of one's illnesses is really a most unpardonable offence.
For all the purposes of description one can find quite enough of
weakness in man when he is strong and hearty, without going out of
one's way to ransack the sick-room for further evidence of his frailty.
So I will merely mention that I was and remained an invalid throughout
the greater part of the ensuing winter.
The truth concerning Claude's health was kept from me. I since knew that
he had passed through an alarming crisis; when the fever was at its
height, his mind had been wandering, and in his disconnected talk he had
alternately appealed to Olga in the tenderest language, and had shrunk
from her imaginary presence with aversion and terror. When calm returned
and comparative health, he would not speak of her. Something of the
shrinking remained.
"With you I could talk about her," he said in the first letter he
could write from Mentone, "but I must wait till I am stronger, and
particularly till I hear better accounts of you. It was an
unpleasant dream that--well--that Erlkönig dream. Again and again I
cried out: 'Mein Vater, mein Vater!'--no help came--_her_ voice
pursued me--On we dashed fever-spurred, till I lay dead in _her_
arms.
"But, to be sure that is all 'such stuff as dreams are made of.' To
you, my dear fellow, I should only send pleasant visions, like
those I am revelling in here. A new world is every day unfolded
before me, a world vibrating with light and glowing with colour. I
have seen the woods and the hills and the waters before, but never
in their gala uniform, and I am simply dazzled. Where are my
beloved outlines? They seem merged in harmonies and swamped in
colours so glorious, that even I lose sight of them. Do you know,
my dear Felix, since I am here I feel there is in me the making of
a colourist, a germ somewhere hidden away so far down, that perhaps
it may never thrive and reach the surface, but a source of
happiness it is to me all the same. When I get strong enough I am
going to nurse the little stranger, and see whether I can coax him
on to the canvas; but I shall do nothing till I have made careful
drawings of a couple of hundred olive trees. Why, every trunk is a
weird fantastic subject in itself, and every branch as it twists
and writhes in titanic agonies. It is as if all the lines of the
universe had taken the olive groves for their place of rendezvous.
"Literally so; for there as I sat wool-gathering the other day, I
descried approaching me the unmistakable lines of Gobelot's hat, a
direct descendant of the one we punished in the glorious old Gleyre
days; and under the hat was the man himself, walking through life
as placidly as ever. He has evidently not yet learnt to draw a
foot, so he has not fitted himself for a bootmaker. Nor need he,
for his father, who died not long ago, left him quite a little
fortune, _rien que cela_! Amongst other properties he inherits a
villa in the best part of Mentone, with a beautiful view on to the
sea, and so many acres of land; the very olive tree I was sitting
under belongs to him. He has come down here to take possession, and
was glad to find in me some one whom he could talk to. The fact is,
he wanted to unburden himself of a secret. He is in love. He is
engaged; you will never guess to whom. Wait; don't look to the
end. She was a young girl whom you knew before she was beautiful,
as he assures me she is now. She always loved the theatre, and one
day, it appears, she was irresistibly attracted by the bills that
announced the performance of that lovely opera of Cherubini's, 'The
Water-Carrier.' That she must see. So she treated herself to a very
good seat, and went off all by herself to witness for the first
time in her life the performance of an opera. Then and there she
was stage-struck, and swore by her illustrious godmother that she
could and would be a singer. She asked some one to teach her, and
wouldn't take 'No' for an answer. She next asked some one to bring
her out, and made him do so, and got the public to applaud into the
bargain. I'm not sure she didn't ask Gobelot to marry her; but so
much is certain--he's going to, and we shall soon hear of Madame
Gobelot, _née_ Rosa Bonheur Sinel. Qu'en dis tu? L'oncle Auguste
was right. Didn't we one day have to mark his words, 'When she gets
a comb to keep that mop of hers in order, she'll find a carriage
and pair too.' Now she'll have it, and a good deal besides; and you
can be sure she will be the Queen of the Regatta, and win all the
prizes.
"I wish I had you here to tell you more, but I must break off, I am
so tired.
CLAUDE."
The generally cheerful tone of Claude's letters, as of some I received
from his father about this time, was, as I know now, only adopted
because I was considered far too unwell to be told the truth. In
reality, Claude's condition gave cause for grave anxiety.
I was not a little surprised to learn that Madeleine was installed as
Claude's nurse in Mentone. It was all the uncle's doing. He who had
always resented the mention of her name--and it was often on Claude's
lips--had been instrumental in bringing her to his side. The invalid was
told that Madame Chevillard and Madeleine were on their way to Genoa,
where the former had been appointed to superintend the formation of a
school of embroidery. There was no truth in the story; it had only been
concocted to explain their presence to Claude.
His uncle had himself gone to Lyons, and had induced Mademoiselle
Chevillard to bring her ward to Mentone. How matters stood there he told
them with tears in his eyes. They must come at once, and---- stop to the
last.
A month had elapsed, and every day had brought Madeleine nearer to the
friend she tended. Her long enforced stay in a hospital had naturally
qualified her to nurse the sick; but it was not her experience alone,
but her devotion to Claude, deep-rooted and untiring, that came to
wrestle with the messenger of death. And the invalid who had been so
restless, even so querulous, before her arrival, was now soothed by the
mere sound of her voice, and as he looked into her amethyst eyes, an
unknown happiness dawned upon him.
Thus I found him and her when I arrived. I had set out for Mentone as
soon as I was strong enough to travel. It was in April; God's Nature
was bright, but sad was the journey, sadder the meeting.
I was fully prepared to find my friend much changed, but when we met I
had difficulty to conceal from him how shocked and distressed I was by
his appearance. I could not but see that he was rapidly wasting away, a
prey to that terrible disease, consumption. The matted hair clinging to
the moist forehead, the pulses on the temples beneath marking life's
ebb; the sunken cheek and the hollow soundless voice, all foreshadowed
the approaching end. As I sat by his side and held his emaciated hand, I
felt I had come none too soon.
Yet he sought to appear cheerful.
"Where are my birds, _ma petite_?" he asked Madeleine. "Give me the
'surprise.' Look here, Felix, isn't she an artist?" he said, holding up
the surprise; the same his _petite_ had announced as being in
preparation. It had taken the shape of an embroidered mat to put under
his lamp.
Yes, she was an artist. Her subject was simple enough. Four birds
representing the four seasons filled the corners of a grey silk square.
There was the crow, the swallow, the nightingale--the fourth I forget;
each beautifully modelled with many-shaded threads of silk, and linked
together by a cleverly-contrived garland of flowers, appropriate to the
seasons they were to illustrate. In the centre, entertwined with a bunch
of evergreen, a ribbon, on which were embroidered the words--
"Les saisons qui changent
L'amitié ne dérangent."
Yes, she was right. True friendship will not change with the seasons
that come and go. But had she thought, as she plied the needle, of the
friendship that ripens and grows, expanding till it is merged in
affection of a deeper nature?
* * * * *
"Stop with me another ten minutes, then let me rest," Claude said, as we
sat by the window, waiting for the moon to rise. "Perhaps I shall see
it; or if not, I shall know it has risen."
"Where must I look for it?" I asked.
"Over those hills. It will hide behind the mists. Wait, to-morrow
perhaps; Thursday--Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Wait."
He was exhausted; I would not let him speak more, but left him to rest,
watched by the pale girl that was ever by his side.
The next day he seemed so much better that he surprised us all. Could it
be possible that a crisis was passed, that the illness had taken a
favourable turn? One dared not think so, but yet the balmy air of
Mentone had ere this worked wonders.
"O Felix," he said, "I feel happier than I have ever been. Every day
brings me new life and light. The world is more beautiful than I
thought; not all drawing; colour too, such colour!" After a pause, he
continued--
"I must tell you all, Felix. I was blind, and she--slowly,
gradually--led me out of the darkness. I thought I knew what love
was--Paris--you know--all passion, pain; love is peace, happiness. It is
she who taught me. I have peered into the deepest of all mysteries, too
great to be solved in this world." And he fell back on his cushions, and
gazed as if in a trance, murmuring "Ma petite."
High winds had been blowing for the last few days, whipping up the waves
of the blue sea and chasing the clouds across the path of the moon, but
now nature was returning to its pleasanter mood, and the clouds were
gradually dropping into line, and taking up positions just above the
horizon.
Saturday had come.
"Good-night, father; good-night, uncle. I feel much better."
Madeleine and I remained. Vigils and anxiety had told upon her. The
bloom had left her cheeks, and her eyes were heavy. We wheeled his chair
to the window and propped him up with pillows.
"Over that hill," he said, "at 11.59;--curious--just a minute before
midnight--I watched it grow ever since it was a tender crescent."
The full moon rose, a red disc, blood red, emerging from this world of
strife; it ascended, taking its hues from man's yellow gold; then
on--freed from terrestrial mists, excelsior to purer skies.
"See," he said, "a true circle; no beginning and no end. The emblem of
eternity!"
Madeleine was resting her weary head on her arms as they lay folded on
the window-sill. Silvery rays fell through the window and played around
her hair.
"Hush! let her rest. Ma sainte! See now--that halo of light around her
head--a vision." He spoke with an effort, but on that early Sunday
morning he told me how deeply he loved Madeleine.
The sun rose once more on Claude; never again the moon. He was still
sitting on that chair when his head dropped to move no more. We were all
present. Madeleine knelt by his side and buried her face in the grey rug
she had so often laid across his knees. She held his lifeless hand and
wept in silent anguish until we led her away.
* * * * *
Did she know, poor Madeleine, that she too had but a few years to live?
that the germs of the unrelenting disease which had carried off her
friend, her lover, were at work within her?
I was with her when she too closed her eyes,--so peacefully, serenely.
It was a vision of love that passed away from amongst us.
"I am quite happy. You will lay me by his side?"
"Yes, Madeleine,--yes."
* * * * *
And now that I have said what I wanted to say about those friends of my
early days, and followed them to the closing chapters of their lives, I
ought perhaps at once to turn over a new leaf and record a fresh
impression. But it is hard to dismiss memories which one has evoked. Why
should one? Nothing in good old Nature is abrupt; the sun sets and day
fades into night; in the rainbow yellow merges into green, and green
into blue, and it seems but in keeping with the ways of Nature that
there should be something to read between the lines of a slightly
sketched life-story, and something to be thought out between
heterogeneous chapters. They cannot but be varying if they are to depict
the motley crowd of figures that go to make up one's own experiences.
Such chapters are like the various pieces on the programme of a musical
recital. There we are taken from a fugue to a notturno, from a grande
valse to a moonshine sonata; and the pianist, if by some chance he
happens to be a musician, leads us with a few improvised chords, from
one mood to another, from flats to sharps, major to minor.
So then my starting-point is once more Dupont, and before I think of
other friends, I find myself speculating as to what he might have
achieved, and to what honours he might have attained, had he lived. What
would he have thought of to-day, and what would to-day have thought of
him? To be sure he would be wearing a bit of red ribbon in his
button-hole, as all distinguished Frenchmen do; and who is not
distinguished? By this time he would have been an Academician, royal or
national, a Membre de l'Institut, perhaps even one of the forty
"Immortals," if he had taken to the pen, as we know painters will
sometimes do. In the eyes of the rising generation the Immortals mostly
take rank with any other old fogeys, and Dupont would have fared no
better than his contemporaries at the hands of the _Nous avons changé
tout cela's_ of the day.
It could not have been otherwise; for, alas! (and I have not sought to
disguise it) he had none of their distinctive qualities. He never loved
the un-beautiful for its own sake, nor was he a man of the
prominent-wart school. In his compositions elevated thought and subtle
expression had a fatal tendency to eclipse the non-essentials; his
luminary rays were painted without regard for the laws of decomposition,
and his atmospheric vibrations, if he attempted them at all, were not
worth speaking of. Besides, the least practised art-student of to-day
would not fail to notice that his careful drawing of hands, or the
graceful lines of his draperies, would monopolise attention, to the
detriment of the backgrounds, which had a way of receding, so that the
main interest of the picture could never be said to concentrate upon
them.
The enchantress, Art, is ever making new victims. Just now she is wedded
to the new master, the variety painter, and is on her wedding-trip,
fully equipped with new fashions of tone and colour, rich too in new
values; and she travels along happily unconscious--some ignorance is
bliss--over the treacherous roads designed by the "new" perspective,
past tottering towers, over warped planes, and down steep inclines,
pluckily standing her ground where those fallen angels, the old masters,
would have feared to tread.
It's the old suit once more before us; young folks versus old fogeys,
the traditional battle-royal, to be fought to-day, as it will be fought
to the end of all time. I say, Hurrah for the young ones! Perhaps they
are leading us a step or two backwards, but I verily believe it is only
to _reculer pour mieux sauter_, to back, we should say, the better to
jump. So let us keep the line clear for youth and strength; we can't do
without their vigorous onslaughts. Where would the old tree of art be,
if it were not for the new shoots?
[Illustration]