ENLIGHTENMENT
Yvette, also, could not sleep. Like her mother, she leaned upon the
sill of the open window, and tears, her first bitter tears, filled
her eyes. Up to this time she had lived, had grown up, in the
heedless and serene confidence of happy youth. Why should she have
dreamed, reflected, puzzled? Why should she not have been a young
girl, like all other young girls? Why should a doubt, a fear, or
painful suspicion have come to her?
She seemed posted on all topics because she had a way of talking on
all subjects, because she had taken the tone, demeanor, and words of
the people who lived around her. But she really knew no more than a
little girl raised in a convent; her audacities of speech came from
her memory, from that unconscious faculty of imitation and
assimilation which women possess, and not from a mind instructed and
emboldened.
She spoke of love as the son of a painter or a musician would, at
the age of ten or twelve years, speak of painting or music. She knew
or rather suspected very well what sort of mystery this word
concealed;--too many jokes had been whispered before her, for her
innocence not to be a trifle enlightened,--but how could she have
drawn the conclusion from all this, that all families did not
resemble hers?
They kissed her mother's hand with the semblance of respect; all
their friends had titles; they all were rich or seemed to be so;
they all spoke familiarly of the princes of the royal line. Two sons
of kings had even come often, in the evening, to the Marquise's
house. How should she have known?
And, then, she was naturally artless. She did not estimate or sum up
people as her mother, did. She lived tranquilly, too joyous in her
life to worry herself about what might appear suspicious to
creatures more calm, thoughtful, reserved, less cordial, and sunny.
But now, all at once, Servigny, by a few words, the brutality of
which she felt without understanding them, awakened in her a sudden
disquietude, unreasoning at first, but which grew into a tormenting
apprehension. She had fled home, had escaped like a wounded animal,
wounded in fact most deeply by those words which she ceaselessly
repeated to get all their sense and bearing: "You know very well
that there can be no question of marriage between us--but only of
love."
What did he mean? And why this insult? Was she then in ignorance of
something, some secret, some shame? She was the only one ignorant of
it, no doubt. But what could she do? She was frightened, startled,
as a person is when he discovers some hidden infamy, some treason of
a beloved friend, one of those heart-disasters which crush.
She dreamed, reflected, puzzled, wept, consumed by fears and
suspicions. Then her joyous young soul reassuring itself, she began
to plan an adventure, to imagine an abnormal and dramatic situation,
founded on the recollections of all the poetical romances she had
read. She recalled all the moving catastrophes, or sad and touching
stories; she jumbled them together, and concocted a story of her own
with which she interpreted the half-understood mystery which
enveloped her life.
She was no longer cast down. She dreamed, she lifted veils, she
imagined unlikely complications, a thousand singular, terrible
things, seductive, nevertheless, by their very strangeness. Could
she be, by chance, the natural daughter of a prince? Had her poor
mother, betrayed and deserted, made Marquise by some king, perhaps
King Victor Emmanuel, been obliged to take flight before the anger
of the family? Was she not rather a child abandoned by its
relations, who were noble and illustrious, the fruit of a
clandestine love, taken in by the Marquise, who had adopted and
brought her up?
Still other suppositions passed through her mind. She accepted or
rejected them according to the dictates of her fancy. She was moved
to pity over her own case, happy at the bottom of her heart, and sad
also, taking a sort of satisfaction in becoming a sort of a heroine
of a book who must: assume a noble attitude, worthy of herself.
She laid out the part she must play, according to events at which
she guessed. She vaguely outlined this role, like one of Scribe's or
of George Sand's. It should be endued with devotion, self-abnegation,
greatness of soul, tenderness; and fine words. Her pliant nature
almost rejoiced in this new attitude. She pondered almost till evening
what she should do, wondering how she should manage to wrest the truth
from the Marquise.
And when night came, favorable to tragic situations, she had thought
out a simple and subtile trick to obtain what she wanted: it was,
brusquely, to say that Servigny had asked for her hand in marriage.
At this news, Madame Obardi, taken by surprise, would certainly let
a word escape her lips, a cry which would throw light into the mind
of her daughter. And Yvette had accomplished her plan.
She expected an explosion of astonishment, an expansion of love, a
confidence full of gestures and tears. But, instead of this, her
mother, without appearing stupefied or grieved, had only seemed
bored; and from the constrained, discontented, and worried tone in
which she had replied, the young girl, in whom there suddenly awaked
all the astuteness, keenness, and sharpness of a woman,
understanding that she must not insist, that the mystery was of
another nature, that it would be painful to her to learn it, and
that she must puzzle it out all alone, had gone back to her room,
her heart oppressed, her soul in distress, possessed now with the
apprehensions of a real misfortune, without knowing exactly either
whence or why this emotion came to her. So she wept, leaning at the
window.
She wept long, not dreaming of anything now, not seeking to discover
anything more, and little by little, weariness overcoming her, she
closed her eyes. She dozed for a few minutes, with that deep sleep
of people who are tired out and have not the energy to undress and
go to bed, that heavy sleep, broken by dreams, when the head nods
upon the breast.
She did not go to bed until the first break of day, when the cold of
the morning, chilling her, compelled her to leave the window.
The next day and the day after, she maintained a reserved and
melancholy attitude. Her thoughts were busy; she was learning to spy
out, to guess at conclusions, to reason. A light, still vague,
seemed to illumine men and things around her in a new manner; she
began to entertain suspicions against all, against everything that
she had believed, against her mother. She imagined all sorts of
things during these two days. She considered all the possibilities,
taking the most extreme resolutions with the suddenness of her
changeable and unrestrained nature. Wednesday she hit upon a plan,
an entire schedule of conduct and a system of spying. She rose
Thursday morning with the resolve to be very sharp and armed against
everybody.
She determined even to take for her motto these two words: "Myself
alone," and she pondered for more than an hour how she should
arrange them to produce a good effect engraved about her crest, on
her writing paper.
Saval and Servigny arrived at ten o'clock. The young girl gave her
hand with reserve, without embarrassment, and in a tone, familiar
though grave, she said:
"Good morning, Muscade, are you well?" "Good morning, Mam'zelle,
fairly, thanks, and you?" He was watching her. "What comedy will she
play me," he said to himself.
The Marquise having taken Saval's arm, he took Yvette's, and they
began to stroll about the lawn, appearing and disappearing every
minute, behind the clumps of trees.
Yvette walked with a thoughtful air, looking at the gravel of the
pathway, appearing hardly to hear what her companion said and
scarcely answering him.
Suddenly she asked: "Are you truly my friend, Muscade?"
"Why, of course, Mam'zelle."
"But truly, truly, now?"
"Absolutely your friend, Mam'zelle, body and soul."
"Even enough of a friend not to lie to me once, just once?"
"Even twice, if necessary."
"Even enough to tell me the absolute, exact truth?"
"Yes, Mam'zelle."
"Well, what do you think, way down in your heart, of the Prince of
Kravalow?"
"Ah, the devil!"
"You see that you are already preparing to lie."
"Not at all, but I am seeking the words, the proper words. Great
Heavens, Prince Kravalow is a Russian, who speaks Russian, who was
born in Russia, who has perhaps had a passport to come to France,
and about whom there is nothing false but his name and title."
She looked him in the eyes: "You mean that he is--?"
"An adventurer, Mam'zelle."
"Thank you, and Chevalier Valreali is no better?" "You have hit it."
"And Monsieur de Belvigne?"
"With him it is a different thing. He is of provincial society,
honorable up to a certain point, but only a little scorched from
having lived too rapidly."
"And you?"
"I am what they call a butterfly, a man of good family, who had
intelligence and who has squandered it in making phrases, who had
good health and who has injured it by dissipation, who had some
worth perhaps and who has scattered it by doing nothing. There is
left to me a certain knowledge of life, a complete absence of
prejudice, a large contempt for mankind, including women, a very
deep sentiment of the uselessness of my acts and a vast tolerance
for the mob."
"Nevertheless, at times, I can be frank, and I am even capable of
affection, as you could see, if you would. With these defects and
qualities I place myself at your orders, Mam'zelle, morally and
physically, to do what you please with me."
She did not laugh; she listened, weighing his words and his
intentions; then she resumed:
"What do you think of the Countess de Lammy?"
He replied, vivaciously: "You will permit me not to give my opinion
about the women."
"About none of them?"
"About none of them." "Then you must have a bad opinion of them all.
Come, think; won't you make a single exception?"
He sneered with that insolent air which he generally wore; and with
that brutal audacity which he used as a weapon, he said: "Present
company is always excepted."
She blushed a little, but calmly asked: "Well, what do you think of
me?"
"You want me to tell. Well, so be it. I think you are a young person
of good sense, and practicalness, or if you prefer, of good
practical sense, who knows very well how to arrange her pastime, to
amuse people, to hide her views, to lay her snares, and who, without
hurrying, awaits events."
"Is that all?" she asked.
"That's all."
Then she said with a serious earnestness: "I shall make you change
that opinion, Muscade."
Then she joined her mother, who was proceeding with short steps, her
head down, with that manner assumed in talking very low, while
walking, of very intimate and very sweet things. As she advanced she
drew shapes in the sand, letters perhaps, with the point of her
sunshade, and she spoke, without looking at Saval, long, softly,
leaning on his arm, pressed against him.
Yvette suddenly fixed her eyes upon her, and a suspicion, rather a
feeling than a doubt, passed through her mind as a shadow of a cloud
driven by the wind passes over the ground.
The bell rang for breakfast. It was silent and almost gloomy. There
was a storm in the air. Great solid clouds rested upon the horizon,
mute and heavy, but charged with a tempest. As soon as they had
taken their coffee on the terrace, the Marquise asked:
"Well, darling, are you going to take a walk today with your friend
Servigny? It is a good time to enjoy the coolness under the trees."
Yvette gave her a quick glance.
"No, mamma, I am not going out to-day."
The Marquise appeared annoyed, and insisted. "Oh, go and take a
stroll, my child, it is excellent for you."
Then Yvette distinctly said: "No, mamma, I shall stay in the house
to-day, and you know very well why, because I told you the other
evening."
Madame Obardi gave it no further thought, preoccupied with the
thought of remaining alone with Saval. She blushed and was annoyed,
disturbed on her own account, not knowing how she could find a free
hour or two. She stammered:
"It is true. I was not thinking of it. I don't know where my head
is."
And Yvette taking up some embroidery, which she called "the public
safety," and at which she worked five or six times a year, on dull
days, seated herself on a low chair near her mother, while the two
young men, astride folding-chairs, smoked their cigars.
The hours passed in a languid conversation. The Marquise fidgety,
cast longing glances at Saval, seeking some pretext, some means, of
getting rid of her daughter. She finally realized that she would not
succeed, and not knowing what ruse to employ, she said to Servigny:
"You know, my dear Duke, that I am going to keep you both this
evening. To-morrow we shall breakfast at the Fournaise restaurant,
at Chaton."
He understood, smiled, and bowed: "I am at your orders, Marquise."
The day wore on slowly and painfully under the threatenings of the
storm. The hour for dinner gradually approached. The heavy sky was
filled with slow and heavy clouds. There was not a breath of air
stirring. The evening meal was silent, too. An oppression, an
embarrassment, a sort of vague fear, seemed to make the two men and
the two women mute.
When the covers were removed, they sat long upon the terrace; only
speaking at long intervals. Night fell, a sultry night. Suddenly the
horizon was torn by an immense flash of lightning, which illumined
with a dazzling and wan light the four faces shrouded in darkness.
Then a far-off sound, heavy and feeble, like the rumbling of a
carriage upon a bridge, passed over the earth; and it seemed that
the heat of the atmosphere increased, that the air suddenly became
more oppressive, and the silence of the evening deeper.
Yvette rose. "I am going to bed," she said, "the storm makes me
ill."
And she offered her brow to the Marquise, gave her hand to the two
young men, and withdrew.
As her room was just above the terrace, the leaves of a great
chestnut-tree growing before the door soon gleamed with a green hue,
and Servigny kept his eyes fixed on this pale light in the foliage,
in which at times he thought he saw a shadow pass. But suddenly the
light went out. Madame Obardi gave a great sigh.
"My daughter has gone to bed," she said.
Servigny rose, saying: "I am going to do as much, Marquise, if you
will permit me." He kissed the hand she held out to him and
disappeared in turn.
She was left alone with Saval, in the night. In a moment she was
clasped in his arms. Then, although he tried to prevent her, she
kneeled before him murmuring: "I want to see you by the lightning
flashes."
But Yvette, her candle snuffed out, had returned to her balcony,
barefoot, gliding like a shadow, and she listened, consumed by an
unhappy and confused suspicion. She could not see, as she was above
them, on the roof of the terrace.
She heard nothing but a murmur of voices, and her heart beat so fast
that she could actually hear its throbbing. A window closed on the
floor above her. Servigny, then, must have just gone up to his room.
Her mother was alone with the other man.
A second flash of lightning, clearing the sky; lighted up for a
second all the landscape she knew so well, with a startling and
sinister gleam, and she saw the great river, with the color of
melted lead, as a river appears in dreams in fantastic scenes.
Just then a voice below her uttered the words: "I love you!" And she
heard nothing more. A strange shudder passed over her body, and her
soul shivered in frightful distress. A heavy, infinite silence,
which seemed eternal, hung over the world. She could no longer
breathe, her breast oppressed by something unknown and horrible.
Another flash of lightning illumined space, lighting up the horizon
for an instant, then another almost immediately came, followed by
still others. And the voice, which she had already heard, repeated
more loudly: "Oh! how I love you! how I love you!" And Yvette
recognized the voice; it was her mother's.
A large drop of warm rain fell upon her brow, and a slight and
almost imperceptible motion ran through the leaves, the quivering of
the rain which was now beginning. Then a noise came from afar, a
confused sound, like that of the wind in the branches: it was the
deluge descending in sheets on earth and river and trees. In a few
minutes the water poured about her, covering her, drenching her like
a shower-bath. She did not move, thinking only of what was happening
on the terrace.
She heard them get up and go to their rooms. Doors were closed
within the house; and the young girl, yielding to an irresistible
desire to learn what was going on, a desire which maddened and
tortured her, glided downstairs, softly opened the outer door, and,
crossing the lawn under the furious downpour, ran and hid in a clump
of trees, to look at the windows.
Only one window was lighted, her mother's. And suddenly two shadows
appeared in the luminous square, two shadows, side by side. Then
distracted, without reflection, without knowing what she was doing,
she screamed with all her might, in a shrill voice: "Mamma!" as a
person would cry out to warn people in danger of death.
Her desperate cry was lost in the noise of the rain, but the couple
separated, disturbed. And one of the shadows disappeared, while the
other tried to discover something, peering through the darkness of
the garden.
Fearing to be surprised, or to meet her mother at that moment,
Yvette rushed back to the house, ran upstairs, dripping wet, and
shut herself in her room, resolved to open her door to no one.
Without taking, off her streaming dress, which clung to her form,
she fell on her knees, with clasped hands, in her distress imploring
some superhuman protection, the mysterious aid of Heaven, the
unknown support which a person seeks in hours of tears and despair.
The great lightning flashes threw for an instant their livid
reflections into her room, and she saw herself in the mirror of her
wardrobe, with her wet and disheveled hair, looking so strange that
she did not recognize herself. She remained there so long that the
storm abated without her perceiving it. The rain ceased, a light
filled the sky, still obscured with clouds, and a mild, balmy,
delicious freshness, a freshness of grass and wet leaves, came in
through the open window.
Yvette rose, took off her wet, cold garments, without thinking what
she was doing, and went to bed. She stared with fixed eyes at the
dawning day. Then she wept again, and then she began to think.
Her mother! A lover! What a shame! She had read so many books in
which women, even mothers, had overstepped the bounds of propriety,
to regain their honor at the pages of the climax, that she was not
astonished beyond measure at finding herself enveloped in a drama
similar to all those of her reading. The violence of her first
grief, the cruel shock of surprise, had already worn off a little,
in the confused remembrance of analogous situations. Her mind had
rambled among such tragic adventures, painted by the novel-writers,
that the horrible discovery seemed, little by little, like the
natural continuation of some serial story, begun the evening before.
She said to herself: "I will save my mother." And almost reassured
by this heroic resolution, she felt herself strengthened, ready at
once for the devotion and the struggle. She reflected on the means
which must be employed. A single one seemed good, which was quite in
keeping with her romantic nature. And she rehearsed the interview
which she should have with the Marquise, as an actor rehearses the
scene which he is going to play.
The sun had risen. The servants were stirring about the house. The
chambermaid came with the chocolate. Yvette put the tray on the
table and said:
"You will say to my mother that I am not well, that I am going to
stay in bed until those gentlemen leave, that I could not sleep last
night, and that I do not want to be disturbed because I am going to
try to rest."
The servant, surprised, looked at the wet dress, which had fallen
like a rag on the carpet.
"So Mademoiselle has been out?" she said.
"Yes, I went out for a walk in the rain to refresh myself."
The maid picked up the skirts, stockings, and wet shoes; then she
went away carrying on her arm, with fastidious precautions, these
garments, soaked as the clothes of a drowned person. And Yvette
waited, well knowing that her mother would come to her.
The Marquise entered, having jumped from her bed at the first words
of the chambermaid, for a suspicion had possessed her, heart since
that cry: "Mamma!" heard in the dark.
"What is the matter?" she said.
Yvette looked at her and stammered: "I--I--" Then overpowered by a
sudden and terrible emotion, she began to choke.
The Marquise, astonished, again asked: "What in the world is the
matter with you?"
Then, forgetting all her plans and prepared phrases, the young girl
hid her face in both hands and stammered:
"Oh! mamma! Oh! mamma!"
Madame Obardi stood by the bed, too much affected thoroughly to
understand, but guessing almost everything, with that subtile
instinct whence she derived her strength. As Yvette could not speak,
choked with tears, her mother, worn out finally and feeling some
fearful explanation coming, brusquely asked:
"Come, will you tell me what the matter is?"
Yvette could hardly utter the words: "Oh! last night--I saw--your
window."
The Marquise, very pale; said: "Well? what of it?"
Her daughter repeated, still sobbing: "Oh! mamma! Oh! mamma!"
Madame Obardi, whose fear and embarrassment turned to anger,
shrugged her shoulders and turned to go. "I really believe that you
are crazy. When this ends, you will let me know."
But the young girl, suddenly took her hands from her face, which was
streaming with tears.
"No, listen, I must speak to you, listen. You must promise me--we
must both go, away, very far off, into the country, and we must live
like the country people; and no one must know what has become of us.
Say you will, mamma; I beg you, I implore you; will you?"
The Marquise, confused, stood in the middle of the room. She had in
her veins the irascible blood of the common people. Then a sense of
shame, a mother's modesty, mingled with a vague sentiment of fear
and the exasperation of a passionate woman whose love is threatened,
and she shuddered, ready to ask for pardon, or to yield to some
violence.
"I don't understand you," she said.
Yvette replied:
"I saw you, mamma, last night. You cannot--if you knew--we will both
go away. I will love you so much that you will forget--"
Madame Obardi said in a trembling voice: "Listen, my daughter,
there are some things which you do not yet understand. Well, don't
forget--don't forget-that I forbid you ever to speak to me about
those things."
But the young girl, brusquely taking the role of savior which she
had imposed upon herself, rejoined:
"No, mamma, I am no longer a child, and I have the right to know. I
know that we receive persons of bad repute, adventurers, and I know
that, on that account, people do not respect us. I know more. Well,
it must not be, any longer, do you hear? I do not wish it. We will
go away: you will sell your jewels; we will work, if need be, and we
will live as honest women, somewhere very far away. And if I can
marry, so much the better."
She answered: "You are crazy. You will do me the favor to rise and
come down to breakfast with all the rest."
"No, mamma. There is some one whom I shall never see again, you
understand me. I want him to leave, or I shall leave. You shall
choose between him and me."
She was sitting up in bed, and she raised her voice, speaking as
they do on the stage, playing, finally, the drama which she had
dreamed, almost forgetting her grief in the effort to fulfill her
mission.
The Marquise, stupefied, again repeated: "You are crazy--" not
finding anything else to say.
Yvette replied with a theatrical energy: "No, mamma, that man shall
leave the house, or I shall go myself, for I will not weaken."
"And where will you go? What will you do?"
"I do not know, it matters little--I want you to be an honest
woman."
These words which recurred, aroused in the Marquise a perfect fury,
and she cried:
"Be silent. I do not permit you to talk to me like that. I am as
good as anybody else, do you understand? I lead a certain sort of
life, it is true, and I am proud of it; the 'honest women' are not
as good as I am."
Yvette, astonished, looked at her, and stammered: "Oh! mamma!"
But the Marquise, carried away with excitement, continued:
"Yes, I lead a certain life--what of it? Otherwise you would be a
cook, as I was once, and earn thirty sous a day. You would be
washing dishes, and your mistress would send you to market--do you
understand--and she would turn you out if you loitered, just as you
loiter, now because I am--because I lead this life. Listen. When a
person is only a nursemaid, a poor girl, with fifty francs saved up,
she must know how to manage, if she does not want to starve to
death; and there are not two ways for us, there are not two ways, do
you understand, when we are servants. We cannot make our fortune
with official positions, nor with stockjobbing tricks. We have only
one way--only one way."
She struck her breast as a penitent at the confessional, and flushed
and excited, coming toward the bed, she continued: "So much the
worse. A pretty girl must live or suffer--she has no choice!" Then
returning to her former idea: "Much they deny themselves, your
'honest women.' They are worse, because nothing compels them. They
have money to live on and amuse themselves, and they choose vicious
lives of their own accord. They are the bad ones in reality."
She was standing near the bed of the distracted Yvette, who wanted
to cry out "Help," to escape. Yvette wept aloud, like children who
are whipped. The Marquise was silent and looked at her daughter,
and, seeing her overwhelmed with despair, felt, herself, the pangs
of grief, remorse, tenderness, and pity, and throwing herself upon
the bed with open arms, she also began to sob and stammered:
"My poor little girl, my poor little girl, if you knew, how you were
hurting me." And they wept together, a long while.
Then the Marquise, in whom grief could not long endure, softly rose,
and gently said:
"Come, darling, it is unavoidable; what would you have? Nothing can
be changed now. We must take life as it comes to us."
Yvette continued to weep. The blow had been too harsh and too
unexpected to permit her to reflect and to recover at once.
Her mother resumed: "Now, get up and come down to breakfast, so that
no one will notice anything."
The young girl shook her head as if to say, "No," without being able
to speak. Then she said, with a slow voice full of sobs:
"No, mamma, you know what I said, I won't alter my determination. I
shall not leave my room till they have gone. I never want to see one
of those people again, never, never. If they come back, you will see
no more of me."
The Marquise had dried her eyes, and wearied with emotion, she
murmured:
"Come, reflect, be reasonable."
Then, after a moment's silence:
"Yes, you had better rest this morning. I will come up to see you
this afternoon." And having kissed her daughter on the forehead, she
went to dress herself, already calmed.
Yvette, as soon as her mother had disappeared, rose, and ran to bolt
the door, to be alone, all alone; then she began to think. The
chambermaid knocked about eleven o'clock, and asked through the
door: "Madame the Marquise wants to know if Mademoiselle wishes
anything, and what she will take for her breakfast."
Yvette answered: "I am not hungry, I only ask not to be disturbed."
And she remained in bed, just as if she had been ill. Toward three
o'clock, some one knocked again. She asked:
"Who is there?"
It was her mother's voice which replied: "It is I, darling, I have
come to see how you are."
She hesitated what she should do. She opened the door, and then went
back to bed. The Marquise approached, and, speaking in low tones, as
people do to a convalescent, said:
"Well, are you better? Won't you eat an egg?"
"No, thanks, nothing at all."
Madame Obardi sat down near the bed. They remained without saying
anything, then, finally, as her daughter stayed quiet, with her
hands inert upon the bedclothes, she asked:
"Don't you intend to get up?"
Yvette answered: "Yes, pretty soon."
Then in a grave and slow tone she said: "I have thought a great
deal, mamma, and this--this is my resolution. The past is the past,
let us speak no more of it. But the future shall be different or I
know what is left for me to do. Now, let us say no more about it."
The Marquise, who thought the explanation finished, felt her
impatience gaining a little. It was too much. This big goose of a
girl ought to have known about things long ago. But she did not say
anything in reply, only repeating:
"You are going to get up?"
"Yes, I am ready."
Then her mother became maid for her, bringing her stockings, her
corset, and her skirts. Then she kissed her.
"Will you take a walk before dinner?"
"Yes, mamma."
And they took a stroll along the water, speaking only of commonplace
things.